Working in Secret: What It’s Like Knowing You’re Quitting While Everyone Else Talks About Next Year’s Budget
Every Monday, I log into Zoom calls, smile politely, and nod along to plans about next school year — as if I’ll still be here. As if I’ll be around for the “back-to-school refresh initiative” or the “national onboarding revamp.” Spoiler alert: I will not. Come this fall, while the rest of the team is finalizing org charts, I’ll be squinting at a Japanese train schedule and trying to convince my Shih Tzu that jet lag isn’t a lifestyle. After thirty years in education leadership, I’m officially retiring early at 52. My wife and I are selling the house, cashing out, and slow traveling the world — Japan first, with a cultural visa, while she studies traditional calligraphy and I attempt to master grocery shopping without accidentally buying laundry starch instead of noodles. And here’s the kicker: no one at work knows.
None of them. Not my boss. Not my coworkers. Not even the one who sends me surprise Teams messages that start with, “Quick question!” and end with a full-blown project plan. Oh — and most of my family doesn’t know either. Because nothing says “holiday tension” like explaining that you’re voluntarily jobless, nomadic, and plan to live out of a suitcase with your dog and a duffel bag of power adapters. That’s a conversation best saved for after dessert.
Every day, I live in this bizarre dual reality: outwardly, I’m the calm, competent professional helping school leaders navigate enrollment dips, staffing bottlenecks, and tech issues. Internally, I’m screaming, “I’M GOING TO BE IN HIROSHIMA NEXT YEAR EATING ONIGIRI IN A PARK!” This week alone, I’ve attended four meetings about next year’s projected staffing ratios. I’ve nodded sagely at someone’s slide deck on virtual PD pathways. I’ve responded to emails with phrases like, “Let’s circle back in Q3,” knowing full well that in Q3 I’ll be circling a temple in Kyoto with my wife and wondering if our health insurance covers accidental wasabi overdoses. The weirdest part? I still care. Kind of. It turns out, caring is a hard habit to break, even when your future includes a rice cooker and an indefinite address.
Living a secret double life is exhausting. I don’t recommend it unless you’re Bruce Wayne or planning early retirement in stealth mode. I spend my days advising school leaders on how to boost retention and improve data reporting, then spend my nights updating spreadsheets with foreign visa requirements, dog microchip records, and the exact number of yen it costs to buy a futon that won’t destroy my spine. I’m juggling performance evaluations and Japanese rental agreements at the same time. While my team debates our Q4 strategic goals, I’m over here asking, “How many suitcases can we realistically haul through Tokyo Station without becoming an international spectacle?” I’ve become weirdly skilled at muting my mic just before laughing maniacally when someone suggests we start planning our 2026 initiatives. I want to say, “Y’all. In 2026, I’m hoping to be eating figs in Albania.”
There’s a strange guilt that comes with knowing you’re leaving. I don’t mean the “I’m abandoning my team” kind. I mean the low-key existential dread of hearing someone say, “I’m so glad we’re building this together,” and knowing you’re emotionally checked out and mentally Googling train passes. It’s not personal. I love these people. I believe in the mission. But after 30 years, I’ve reached my bandwidth limit. My internal battery is flashing red, and no amount of positive feedback loops or KPI dashboards can recharge it. Still, I feel that tug — the pressure to deliver just one more project, fix one more process, attend one more “visioning session” that somehow lasts longer than Avengers: Endgame.
Running on vibes, caffeine, and the faint hope someone cancels this meeting.
It’s not just my coworkers who don’t know. Most of my family is still in the dark. Why? Because I’m still trying to process it myself. And also because I don’t want to spend Thanksgiving explaining to Aunt Ellen that “early retirement” doesn’t mean I’m buying an RV and starting a podcast about brisket. Right now, we’re in that awkward in-between phase: trying to sell our house (a.k.a. staging our home like minimalists even though we’re emotional hoarders), consolidating accounts, cashing out stock bonuses, and booking things with mysterious names like “residency certificate for dog importation.” I’ve started keeping two tabs open at all times: one for school dashboards and one for Airbnb listings in Namba, Osaka. My digital life is a mood swing.
And don’t even get me started on pretending to care about which virtual whiteboard tool we’re “considering piloting” next quarter. You know what I’m piloting? My life. Into a whole new continent. While Meyli, our Shih Tzu, snores gently in the background and contributes exactly zero to the planning, unless emotional support counts. I’ve never owned more folders titled “Important Docs” and “New Life Plans” in my Google Drive. I’ve also never been so good at toggling between real life and the one I’m quietly building in the background.
There’s a difference between quitting quietly and planning quietly. I still show up. I still do my work. But I’ve stopped reaching for the next rung on the ladder. I’m building a different kind of scaffolding now — one made of time, freedom, miso soup, and the kind of peace that only comes from doing something wildly impractical and deeply intentional. Sometimes, in the middle of a particularly dry spreadsheet review, I’ll imagine the moment I land in Japan. I’ll walk off the plane, maybe with a little neck cramp and a crumpled boarding pass, and suddenly, I’ll be someone else. Not Director of Anything. Just Brian. Curious, maybe a little lost, and excited again.
I’ve learned that you don’t have to tell everyone everything right away. Sometimes the best way to protect your dream is to let it simmer until it’s ready. You don’t owe anyone a press release about your future. You owe yourself the courage to live it. And hey, I’m not ghosting my job. I’m finishing strong. But I’m not pretending anymore that I want to be promoted. I want to be free. And maybe mildly fluent in Japanese vegetable identification.
There’s a moment — if you’re lucky — when the dread of staying finally outweighs the fear of leaving. That’s when you know it’s time. Time to close the laptop, cancel the recurring meetings, and see what life feels like when you’re not scheduling joy between calendar invites. For me, that moment came quietly. Not in a crisis, but in a growing clarity that I didn’t want to just survive each work week anymore. I wanted to thrive in the spaces between. I wanted to travel not just for vacation, but for life.
And now that it’s all coming together, I’m learning that reinvention isn’t just possible — it’s delicious. Messy, thrilling, chaotic, and deeply alive. I’m not running away from anything; I’m walking toward something. And while I’ll always carry a little nostalgia for the work I’ve done and the people I’ve served, I know it’s time for the next version of me to take the wheel — hopefully on the correct side of the road.
So here we are. Still attending meetings. Still answering emails. Still reminding people to update the tracker. But also… printing visa forms, booking health insurance, weighing carry-ons, and imagining what it’s like to wake up in a new country where the biggest decision of the day is whether to walk left or right. And yes, I’ll probably keep smiling and nodding all the way through our end-of-year wrap-up call. But inside, I’ll be on a plane.
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Go dreams. Go ramen. Go Bears.