Yesterday was supposed to be my rollover date — the day everything reset, the day all the PTO and vacation hours I earned came back to me. A stupid little box on a calendar that used to mean survival: rest, breathing room, one small promise that the year hadn’t completely swallowed me.

Today, instead of driving to my shift, I was dropping my boyfriend off for his.

I thought it would be simple.

In and out.

Just a parking lot.

But the universe knows how to land a punch in the softest place.

People started walking toward me — the ones I used to stand beside in the cold mornings, the ones I whispered to on the line, the ones who saw me tired, burnt out, and still moving. One by one, they hugged me. Hard. Long. Like someone who had been gone longer than the calendar said.

And every single “I miss you” cracked something open.

Because I didn’t just lose a job.

I lost the version of me who kept going no matter how much it hurt.

I lost the routine that numbed me into surviving.

I lost the people I wasn’t ready to stop seeing every day.

And it hurts.

God, it hurts.

Not because I want to go back — I don’t.

Not because I think they were right — they weren’t.

Not because I miss the toxicity — I’m still healing from it.

But because those moments in the parking lot reminded me of everything that was real. The connection. The humanity. The way we all clung to each other just to get through the week.

I didn’t realize how much grief I was still carrying until someone said, “It hasn’t been the same without you.”

And that’s the part no one talks about.

Leaving a toxic job doesn’t just free you — it shatters you.

It rips you away from the people who helped you survive it.

It forces you to mourn something that never deserved you in the first place.

Yesterday should’ve been about rollover hours.

Instead, it became a collision of everything I’m still unpacking — the loss, the relief, the loyalty, the bruises, the love, the trauma, the memories, the ache.

And maybe the rawest truth is this:

I wasn’t meant to go back.

But I was never meant to leave on those terms either.

And I’m still learning how to hold both — the freedom and the grief — without apologizing for the weight of either one.

A Note to My People Still There

To the ones still showing up every day —
the ones who hugged me like no time had passed,
the ones who looked at me with that quiet mix of love and sadness,
the ones who made the hard days bearable and didn't get to see:

I carry you with me.

You were the bright parts in a place that wasn’t always kind.
You were the laughter between the cracks,
the soft moments in the noise,
the reason I kept going when it felt impossible.

And I’ll always think of the little things we shared —
the Disney and Pixar names I used to give you all
just to make the days a little lighter.
Louisa, Mirabel, Frozone, Vanellope, Maui Muscles, Remy, Mushu, Tow Mater, Tamatoa, Lightning McQueen —
each name a tiny spark of joy,
chosen because something in your look,
your personality,
your accent,
or simply your vibe
reminded me of a character who made me smile.
Some of those nicknames were heartfelt,
and some were jokes —
but that’s because that’s how some of us survived the day.
Humor was our lifeline when everything felt heavy,
a way to breathe when the room felt too tight.

And to the ones I never got to give a name to —
please know I noticed you too.
Your kindness, your energy, your presence
were just as meaningful.
Sometimes I was still searching for the right character,
the one that matched your spirit.
Sometimes I thought I had time.
Either way, you mattered just as much.

Your laughs, your eye rolls, your playful
“Oh my god, Beth…”
became the soundtrack that carried me through so many days.
Those small moments — those small connections —
meant far more to me than I ever said out loud.

I don’t know what the future holds for any of us,
but I want you to know this:

Leaving never meant leaving you.

You were the gift I didn’t realize I would miss.
You were the reason the parking lot felt like a homecoming.
You were the proof that the connection was real,
even when the environment around us wasn’t.

This is my goodbye to the days we shared —
the early mornings,
the exhausted smiles,
the whispered “hang in there,”
the unspoken understanding that we were all doing our best
with what we had.

I’ll think of you often.
I’ll hope for better for every one of you.
And I’ll forever be grateful
for the way you reminded me, in one unexpected moment,
that I mattered more than the way things ended.

Thank you for seeing me.
Thank you for missing me.
Thank you for being my people during those years.

This isn’t a goodbye to you —
just a goodbye to the days we shared.

With love,

And So much Graditude-

Beth

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