How Do You Know When to Leave?
the existential millennial
About a year and a half ago, I started feeling the pull to move back to the West Coast. I’d love to be closer to my parents. My best friends live in California, and Ryan and I want to have children near my social support network.
After a few interview processes last summer that didn’t pan out, I started another school year at GW in my current role. This wasn’t a devastating outcome—I love my job. I lead a high-achieving, smart, and fun team of eleven students and full-time staff who make mid-level management genuinely enjoyable. I love my supervisor (hi, Sherry!) and my colleagues. I have a pretty sweet gig at GW: great people and truly impactful work.
So, why would I want to leave this paradise? Honestly, I’m not sure I do. If I could take this exact job, team, and supervisor with me to California, I would. My remaining concerns—office politics, a lack of public health practitioners in student affairs, and an insufficient salary—pale in comparison to how safe and supported I feel at work.
And I know how rare that is—to have a job that feels fulfilling, stable, and meaningful. But I do have a few key concerns.
The first is that, as far as I can tell, there’s little opportunity for upward mobility in health promotion at GW. To be fair, GW does reward long-term loyalty, and I genuinely believe that if I stayed another ten years, I could move up. But the timeline and pathway are murky at best.
Second, many universities now integrate public health into every facet of campus life (see: Okanagan Charter). As much as I love my role, I spend a lot of my time trying to convince people that public health and prevention matter. It would be a relief to work at an institution where upstream approaches are the norm—not a constant uphill battle.
One of my biggest insecurities is the fear that I’m only good at my job because I’ve been here for so long. What if I go somewhere new and fall flat? Rationally, I know this isn’t true. I’ve succeeded in other environments. But still—what if my success at GW is more about institutional knowledge than actual skill? This is my tenth year at GW—as an undergraduate, then graduate student, and now as a full-time staff member and part-time faculty. GW, with all its flaws, is my home. I know how everything works. The idea of starting fresh—new systems, new norms, new people—is intimidating. It’s also a little exciting to wonder whether I could adapt and thrive somewhere new. But the fear of failure is real.
I’ve written before about yearning for a close-knit friend group. I have meaningful friendships here, but I’ve been craving a crew—a group to hike and explore and laugh with. Maybe it’s envy from watching Instagram accounts like the Adventure Addicts gallivant around Tahoe with their rugged, goofy squad. Or maybe it’s just the very human desire for community. Either way, the pull toward being closer to my people has been growing stronger.
So, how do you know when it’s the right time to leave?
How do you weigh long-distance friendships, a great job, and career aspirations? I talk students through these exact questions all the time, but applying that advice to myself has been much harder. I think part of that is because there’s no “right” answer. I truly believe I could stay at GW for the rest of my career and be happy. I could live in Arlington, raise kids here, and feel content. But I also picture a life in California—closer to my parents, exploring the Sierras more often, reconnecting with friends.
Ryan and I were about 50% set on moving to California this May, but with the federal government in flux and limited job prospects—especially in public health and higher education—we decided to renew our lease for another year. I feel a little bummed, and maybe a little relieved. Change is scary, and postponing a cross-country move feels practical right now. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still daydream about hiking in the Bay Area with Lara and Makena, taking day trips to San Jose to see my family, and spending weekends exploring the coast.
So again—how do you know when to go?
Will there be a moment of clarity? Should I take a leap of faith, quit my job, and just move to California? Or do I stay in D.C., even though a small part of me feels stretched across the country? How do I factor in the desire to have children? How do I weigh career growth against stability?
These are the gritty, uncomfortable questions of adulthood that I’d love to avoid. But the longer I ignore them, the more discontent I feel.
In the absence of a clear answer, I’m trying to get more comfortable sitting in the uncertainty. I’m learning that both things can be true: I can be grateful for the life I’ve built here and still long for something different. I can love my job and still wonder what else is out there. I can feel scared of change and still be drawn to it. Maybe the goal isn’t to make the perfect decision, but to keep listening—to myself, to my values, to the version of me I’m growing into. And when the time feels right—whether that’s next year or five years from now—I hope I’ll be brave enough to make the leap.
