[bilibili bv="BV1SQ4y1U7Eg" p="1"]
I Left Quietly
Thursday, December 16, 2021. The sky turned from overcast to light rain, and my mood felt much the same—heavy, unsettled, packed with things I had been holding back. When the manager finally picked up the phone, I said it plainly: I was resigning.
I joined this workplace in April 2014. Before I knew it, 7 years and 6 months had passed. It was my first job, and to this day, still the longest one I’ve ever held.
For most people, a first job lasts half a year, maybe a year, two at most. So even I find it hard to believe that I stayed on the same road for that long, doing work that was often dull and repetitive, year after year. A toast to my younger self for making it through those years—and maybe another one as punishment for all that time that slipped by.
A few years ago, I came across an article that said a Harvard survey had concluded people get, on average, only seven chances in life to change their direction—roughly one every seven years, starting around age twenty-five, and fading away after seventy-five.
If that were true, then by now I should have made at least a little something of myself. But things rarely go the way they should. In the end, the system plays its own game, and I found myself still standing where I started, surrounded by the usual mess.
Sometimes I look at friends around me. Their jobs may not be especially impressive, but at least they’re steady, and there’s some sense of a future in them. As for me, I never know whether to blame a lack of effort or bad timing. That thought always leaves me feeling off balance, though there’s not much to be done about it.
When the workload got heavy and everyone was mentally drained, a few coworkers and I would complain together. One line someone said has stayed with me ever since: What is meant to be will come; what isn’t, can’t be forced.
What struck me wasn’t just the words themselves, but the calm behind them. Even while complaining, there was still a reminder to keep a level head, to take things lightly, to trust that things would eventually get better. Maybe setbacks like this are simply part of this stage of life. And then again, if I feel bitter about where I stand, who exactly am I supposed to blame?
Looking back now, I can still remember the version of myself who first entered this company—young, naive, not knowing much of anything. Over the years, my coworkers watched me grow up, watched me fall in love, and watched me learn how to deal with people and with the harsher parts of society.
From this small workplace and its modest circle, I picked up bits and pieces of how the world works. The relationships here were never especially complicated, and I never became slick or worldly in that oily, polished way some people do. But even so, those years left their mark. They added a few strokes of social experience to what had once been a blank page in my life.
I never expected everyone to like me. If I could live in a way that didn’t leave too many people resenting me, that was already enough.
Even in my final two shifts, a few coworkers still came over to say things like: do your best at the new job; when you’re young, you should try climbing a little higher. Some also warned me that old hands in a new workplace tend to push around the newcomer, so I should be careful and keep my eyes open.
Whether those words came from real sincerity or were just polite farewells, I chose to take them as blessings all the same.
The world is wide, but not that wide. We’ll meet again somewhere down the road.