Story of a Resignation

It was January. Things at work were going as they usually did: there was work, I delivered for the client, and everything was running smoothly. I had been with the company's biggest client for almost a year and felt comfortable. The project involved generating reports, dashboards, a highly custom grouping system, and calculated fields and commissions. It was complex enough to keep me engaged, but not overly aggressive to work on.

Although, well... what would actually be impossible for me? The aggressive part is always the beginning; after that, you catch the rhythm, understand what is happening, grasp the workflow, and calm almost always follows.

Anyway, I had sporadic meetings with the client—on top of the scheduled ones—to unblock issues whenever necessary, and I consider that they were happy with my work.

Everything was going relatively well. I didn't think I could keep growing where I was, especially regarding salary, until one day a call was scheduled on my calendar. There was a link to a performance evaluation.

And what a surprise it was.

Besides a rating—which didn't really worry me—there were several notes. My contract never specified fixed hours; it only required handling urgent matters and completing deliverables. However, they were not pleased with me organizing my work in a flexible way.

If I had really done things that poorly, I wouldn't have lasted a year with that client. There was even a moment when they were about to lose the integration keys for one of their company's most important systems, and I developed all the necessary tools so they could clean up the data on time. Everything went well.

But there were also remarks about my line count of code.

I suppose I could have asked the prompt to stop creating shared classes and functions, forget about reusable components, and write everything repeatedly. If that was the metric they wanted to measure, I could make it look that way.

And at the end of the document, there was a note: if this didn't improve, they could reduce my hours or terminate the contract.

Hmm... that was the part that really bothered me.

Not because there were consequences. That's normal. But because there was never a prior warning, a conversation, or a "hey, we'd like to see this handled differently." That warning simply appeared out of nowhere.

In my mind, it stopped feeling like feedback and started feeling like a pressure tactic.

So that day, I stopped working.

Something exploded inside my head.

I wanted a better salary, and I knew perfectly well there was no room for growth there anymore. It didn't matter how hard you worked, how many extra hours you put in, or how many projects you took on. It simply was not a path that fostered that growth.

And I get it. It's a business. Companies aim to be profitable.

But then I started thinking about myself.

I have money saved up. I have no debt.

I want to build my own thing, but I haven't been able to. The stress doesn't let me think. If I quit, I'll have time... but at the same time, my mind tortures me because leaving a stable job is terrifying.

Yet I didn't want to stay there either.

And now my own mind was screaming it at me.

"But it's not a bad job. They pay well enough."

Then I asked myself something that made me uncomfortable.

Am I a slave to money?

Does my worth have a price?

Where is that freedom that goes beyond money?

Where is that happiness of doing things that truly align with your goals?

Because my goal was to grow, and I felt that path had reached its end.

And then I thought:

"Thank you... seriously."

Because that evaluation ended up exposing an internal noise I had been ignoring for a long time.

I could no longer bear the thought of staying.

So what am I going to do?

I'm going to bet on myself, just like I used to.

I'm going to do whatever it takes.

I'm going to get back on my path.

I need to follow my path.

Then came the meeting.

They began explaining how the evaluation went and the reasoning behind the ratings.

After that, they asked me: —Do you have anything to say?

I replied: —Regarding soft skills or teamwork, I might agree. It's debatable, but I accept it. As for the technical area, I completely disagree, though that's not really my concern anymore.

They answered: —Of course it's your concern.

And I told them: —Look, right now, based on what you're explaining, I understand what you want to see to improve my evaluation. And I can make it look that way. Because the problem isn't that I can't do it; the problem is that your evaluation criteria measure different things from what I consider important. I don't feel like I'm doing a bad job. The client is happy. A while ago, they even sent a message congratulating us on the excellent work, and I'm practically the only one developing that project.

They replied: —Yes, and here in the notes, we also mention that you've fulfilled your duties...

So I interrupted them. —Look, I'll save you the trouble. I don't agree, and I don't think this conversation will change anything. This could have been a feedback session, but for me, it isn't anymore. The way it was presented, along with the warning at the end of the document, led me to a decision. And I don't want to operate under that feeling—neither in my personal life nor in my work.

I took a breath for a few seconds.

—That's why I've made the decision to resign.

There were about three seconds of silence.

I remember the look of surprise on their faces vividly.

Then they said: —But... in your contract...

—Yes, I know perfectly well what my contract says. It states that I must give notice and stay for ten days, but it doesn't specify business days. I'm open to documenting and finishing what I was working on before I leave.

Another moment of silence.

Finally, they responded: —I'm very sorry you've made this decision. This meeting wasn't meant to end like this.

And I replied: —I know. But it was time. Thank you very much.

And really...

Thank you very much.

I felt so much uncertainty about what was going to happen next. I didn't know if I would get another job. After almost six years, you end up getting comfortable.

My teammates were never the problem, nor was the client. In fact, I liked them a lot. I miss hearing their voices on calls and working with them.

But there was no longer room to keep growing.

The decision was made.

And now, only one thing remained.

Hold on tight.

Keep walking.

Everything is going to be alright, Jesús.