You remind me of home
I've tried to write this a few times, but it keeps coming out wrong. So long story short:

I moved.

When I started my first job out of school, I promised myself I'd only stay three years -- or however long it took for me to stop learning.

Inertia could have kept me there longer; it's like rolling over and hitting the snooze button again and again because you can't bear to get out of bed. But after eight or 10 slaps at the clock, you notice it's 7:59 and you're supposed to be somewhere RIGHT NOW OR YOU'RE GOING TO GET FIRED, and then utter panic takes over.

Something of this nature happened to me as the three-year mark was approaching. Not the three-year mark itself, but something that jolted me awake and reminded me the hour was nigh.

It also made it impossible for me to keep ignoring something that had been quietly gnawing at me: the knowledege that I just wasn't happy. And that was OK. I didn't have to be anymore.

I've made most of my life-altering decisions based on gut feelings. My gut is almost never wrong. And it wasn't this time, either. It knew I was frustrated and lonely and tired to death of that. And, with a little helpful nudging from outside sources, it told me to quit hitting snooze and get the hell out of bed.

I had my doubts. I always do. But now that I'm here, sitting on the floor in this room with an honest-to-God view, so much closer to everyone and everything I need, I know it was right. And I have no intention of looking back.

Ben Gibbard and Andrew Kenny, "You Remind Me of Home"

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