It turns out that how you show up in one place is exactly how you show up everywhere else. Sure, intellectually, I knew this. But life has a way of tossing lessons back at you, making sure you really get the memo.
When it's time for me to exit, I tend to do it fast, cold, and–honestly–pretty abrupt. And that became clear yesterday when someone from the VA hit me with a polite little landmine of a phone call. They asked about an emergency workspace–the last thing holding up my paperwork for the new job–and told me they wanted me to start Sunday. This Sunday. I felt my stomach do a quick somersault, and all I could manage was a mumbled, "Okay…"
This new job? I've been gunning for it, waiting for it for a long time. It's not on a vision board or anything, but it's ideal for me, right here, right now. But I've also been at the hospital since 2019, and leaving without the ceremonious "two weeks' notice" feels like bailing on a long dinner with a single "thanks" and no tip. It's not just the notice; it's the principle. This place has taught me things and shaped me into the person they're about to hire. I owe them, at the very least, a decent goodbye.
But here's the rub: waiting felt like–what?–like dragging my feet, or worse, as if I were telling the fancy new job, "Hey, sorry, I'm actually pretty attached to the break room coffee over here." Like I might miss my big shot just because I couldn't pack up fast enough.
So I went to my boss. Classic boss advice: "Do what's best for you," he said, but also suggested I check with the XO. The XO, very diplomatically, asked if I could give the two weeks so they could find someone to fill my spot but said he'd understand if I needed to go. I decided to let the Universe take over. If the VA could confirm the workspace by Sunday, I'd start Monday. If not, I'd give the two weeks.
But why stop at questioning one goodbye? That morning, I had been thinking about my men's group, which I'd been toying with leaving for a while. The group's been my rock, and I've actually been doing this work since 2011. But lately, I'd felt like maybe I'd worked through what I needed to. I am starting to question the value of staying. So when I woke up that morning, quitting the men's group felt…strangely okay. Really okay, in fact–unlike past times when the thought of leaving made my insides scream. I figured I'd just tell the men, "Thanks, been real," and that'd be that.
Of course, that's not how it went.
Their reactions? Not what I expected. They said it felt abrupt like it was out of nowhere. Some of the guys were hurt, others annoyed, and I could feel the heavy silence on the other end of the call. They didn't want me to stay for them, but they wanted something–an answer, maybe, or just a proper goodbye. Then Wayne dropped a truth bomb: "Goodbyes need time," he said. "When you vanish like that, those you left have to mourn your loss alone."
And that hit hard because it's been my pattern for a while. When it's time to go, I pack it up, say, "I'm out," and leave. Wayne was right: it's cold. And yeah, I've done it before–left things without a backward glance. Relationships, jobs, you name it. When it's over, I'm out, leaving others to figure out what happened.
And that's the thing, isn't it? We think "how we show up" only matters in the big moments–the milestones, the grand entrances. But it turns out how you say goodbye says just as much about who you are. It's not a graceful exit if you leave people picking up pieces without you there to help. So I told the men's group I'd stay a little longer, to work on this whole goodbye thing, to give some respect to the time we’ve invested. And I decided to give my current job two more weeks.
Maybe it's just one more way of showing up right.
