It read: "My last day will be October 7, 2016."

It was written in bold. It was more of a declaration than a resignation. It was the fulfillment of a promise I made myself. The period at the end of that statement was not only the end of the sentence but the end of playing their game. The 'come to work, smile like everything's okay, while really knowing I'm being disrespected, undervalued, and unappreciated' game. It was the only thing I could say to express the "I ain't stupid" feeling that grew within the several months leading up to this point.

The months where my boss would take 3 weeks vacation, but when I took a sick day I got scolded. The months where passive aggressive e-mails filled my inbox. The months where my growing to-do list kept me motivated, while everyone else complained about how much work to do. The months where my conversations of dissatisfaction and attempts at resolve fell upon deaf ears.

"My last day will be October 7, 2016," I excitedly typed. I dated it three weeks after it's original creation date, and held myself accountable for submitting it. I didn't know what was in store for my life, but I knew this wasn't it. I knew this couldn't be it—not anymore. I pressed send on the e-mail, with my resignation letter attached, and took a swig of wine from a brown paper bag. I was on my way to Canada, preparing to celebrate this leap of faith and pursuit of peace.

I returned on the following Monday to silence, eye rolls, and whispers. These people, that I dedicated my life to for a year and a half, felt offended that I decided to move on—after only a year and a half. They were upset that I wanted to advance in my career. They were mad that they shooed me away. Mad that their unethical behavior had rubbed me the wrong way and I refused to be a victim to it any longer. 

The fact of the matter is that people don't quit jobs, they quit bosses. They quit bad leaders. They quit boredom and the absence of meaningful work. They quit disloyalty and politics. They quit toxic energy and unhappiness.

I pride myself on peace and purpose; and while this job was exactly what I wanted to do when choosing a career path, the atmosphere was not what I had anticipated. I work hard, and I work well. But I also know that in any workplace, that's only half the battle.

I decided to submit my letter of resignation whether I had a position awaiting me or not. When I typed those words and bolded them, I meant them. And in submitting it, so many things were revealed; most importantly, so many lessons were learned—of them are these two:

Know your worth.

This is relevant for the jobs I've begun applying to, and the one I was leaving. I wasn't being used to my fullest ability. I wasn't allowed the creative freedom I deserved. Sure, I was asked my opinion, on more than one occasion, but it was always dismissed. As if asking for my opinion was a formality. I was being led by a leader who had never managed a workforce before, and who, admittedly mentioned not wanting to manage one now. I was doing his work and my own with not as much as a thank you parting from his lips. From anyone's lips. I was trusted with more, without receiving the pay that compensated for that additional trust. I was tried and tested. I never felt entitled to any of it, but after a while, I knew I didn't deserve being discarded or dismissed. I knew I deserved better. And regardless of if the better was available now or not, I was determined to get it. I refused to expend another bit of energy in a place that didn't respect it. My worth was more precious than the pennies they were throwing at me.

Peace is more important.

Having a job is important—it's critically important, actually—but my peace, that's more important. My obedience to God, even more important than peace. I owned that. I prided myself on that. I believe, and still do, that waking up each morning dreading life is not what life's about. While there will always be situations you'll have to bear the burden of—jobs, people, and circumstances you'd prefer to do without—there are also ones that have the power to pull you down. I refused to go down. Not for a job and not for a dollar. I realized when I stopped idolizing money I could free myself from the strongholds of it. Sure, financial freedom is a goal, but not one I'm willing to give up my peace for. Not one worth the better parts of my soul. Not one worth dying every day for.

I'm sure my unhappiness and spiritual disruption led Him to pull me from a place I had once thought He placed me in for the long haul. Perhaps it was simply to come to this moment. To realize that though I need a job, I don't need just any job. To recognize that my worth is defined in Him and that I deserve beyond what just anyone will give me. To really identify the true meaning of peace, and to take big steps to get it. Whatever it was—the reason I was pulled from this place I once enjoyed—I couldn't be any happier. I couldn't feel any more at peace about this decision. While struggle, a different kind of struggle, may be on the horizon, I sit in so much comfort knowing that I've created a peace I've always desired. Knowing that I stood up for the worth that took me a while to find. And now understanding more than ever, the importance of workplace worth.