I quit.

Regularly—and it seems, more often these days.

People ask me how I’ve stayed in this field for over three decades through countless attacks, chronic underfunding (and now blatant defunding), and an increasingly hostile environment. They ask how I’ve managed to stay—and even, dare I say it, stay hopeful.

I’ve watched colleagues leave—both voluntarily and involuntarily. And I’ve recognized in others doing similar work what I’ve felt in my own body: the buildup of discouragement, hopelessness, and even bitterness as hard-earned gains are clawed back, and the relentless need to justify the value of our contributions wears us down. I’ve seen the toll it takes on physical and mental well-being—and on families and close relationships.

I’ve had my doubts, too. I’ve asked myself: “Why am I still here?”

Never did I imagine this is where we’d be.

Yes, it feels harder than ever. But that’s not a reason to give up or go away.

It’s also not a reason to stay.

Some of you reading this have said (or are ready to say), “Enough. I’m out.” You’ve been planning your retirement or next chapter, and now feels like the right time to say farewell. And it may be.

Some of you reading this don’t see leaving as an option. Leaving feels like it dishonors those who came before and the sacrifices they made. There is still a fight to be fought and a struggle to be won. And that may be.

It’s no news to any of you that I practice what I teach. I have regular—almost daily—listening exchanges to do my own healing.

What you might not know is that I use this practice to quit.

In my “Speaker” turn: I give up. I walk away. I say “good-bye.”

And I notice, name, and feel everything that comes up with those words. All of it.

Because here’s what I’ve learned coaching leaders and working in organizational culture change for over three decades: we can be so committed to the impact we know we’re having—and so afraid of what will happen if we stop—that we don’t allow ourselves to imagine giving up.

So we do one of two things:

1) We get out and don’t look back, often with the lingering feeling that we didn’t make a difference, and we flee to save ourselves.

Or 2) we stay. We stick it out. We push through, we climb over, we push down, we ignore—often to our own detriment.

But most of us don’t leave from joy. We leave from discouragement.

And most of us don’t stay from hope. We stay out of fear.

We’re afraid that if we say the words “I quit” out loud, we might actually leave. And “they” would win. Then we’d hate ourselves for giving up.

Last month I gathered **with a group of leaders for Heard, our live 2-hour Leadership Listening Reset, and we practiced exactly this: saying the words out loud. Not because we believe them (we don’t), but because we’ve been pushing them down, and they’ve had nowhere to go.

And once the words are expressed and felt, something shifts. The feelings of fear and discouragement stop running the show. They stop distracting us. We get clearer about what those emotions are really about—and, as importantly, what they’re not.