When You Lose $50k on Purpose
When You Lose $50k on Purpose
On burnout, boundaries, and buying back your life.
I've been in the accounting industry for twenty years. I've spent five years building a firm—spreadsheets, reconciliations, making sense of the chaos so my clients can breathe a little easier. But in early 2025, I found myself staring at a number I couldn't reconcile: $50,000. That's how much anticipated revenue I walked away from. On purpose.
This isn't a story about dramatic pivots or overnight transformations. It's about what happens when your body starts screaming louder than your bank account. When you realize that hustle culture has quietly stolen pieces of your life you didn't even notice were missing.
Let me take you back.
The Startup That Stole My Heart
There was this startup. Fast-moving, mission-driven, the kind of company you root for. Their leadership team was sharp, kind, and doing genuinely innovative work. I wanted so badly to be part of their story.
But here's the thing about 18 months of being a contractor when a company is scaling at lightning speed: you're always on the outside of the momentum. I could see what they needed—someone fully embedded, someone who could grow with them through the chaos of exponential growth. And that wasn't me. Not in the capacity I was in.
Letting go of that engagement wasn't about them doing anything wrong. It was about being honest: I was a bandaid when they needed stitches. Staying would have meant holding them back while pretending I could keep up. That's not service. That's ego.
Sometimes the most generous thing you can do is admit you're not the right fit.
The Three-Hour Prison
Then there was the other client. The one that looked great on paper—steady, reliable, consistent revenue. Except here's what "consistent" actually meant: three hours of dedicated office time, every single Wednesday, whether or not they had anything for me to do.
Do you know what three captive hours every Wednesday does to a parent? It meant I couldn't chaperone field trips if they fell on a Wednesday. It meant that when a spontaneous trip to the Oregon coast happened to land on a Wednesday, I'd be the one searching for signal on the side of a coastal road to fulfill my obligation.
My kids are only this age once. That field trip to the pumpkin patch? That's not coming back. The random Wednesday afternoon when my daughter needed me to just be there? Those moments don't get rescheduled for client convenience.
I kept telling myself the money was worth it. That this was just what "running a business" looked like. That good moms figure out how to do both. But you know what? Good moms also get to show up. And I wasn't.
The C-Suite Breakdown
Right in the middle of all this, I landed what should have been a dream client. High-level. Well-funded. Recommended by a great neighbor. The kind of engagement that makes your accountant heart sing. I was excited. I was ready.
Except the scope was... not what we discussed. What I thought was a contained project turned into an ecosystem. Acronyms and processes only the former "Director of Finance & Accounting" understood—which, by the way, I came on with a bookkeeper title, completely replacing her director-level role. A level of complexity that would have been manageable if I wasn't already running on fumes.
And then Tiki died.
Our Siberian Husky. Fourteen years of blue eyes and dramatic howling and a presence that filled every room. He lived in every one of our ten homes—we were a military family—including Japan. Tiki was more than a dog. He was the constant through every PCS, every new assignment, every upheaval.
He passed the evening before I was scheduled to meet with this client's wonderfully kind CEO. I had actually planned to use that meeting to quit—to tell them this wasn't working. What I didn't expect was their entire team staring back at me through Zoom. I showed up with my camera on, my notes ready, tears streaming down my face, looking into the eyes of an entire C-suite I hadn't anticipated.
There's no professional playbook for that. There's no "fake it til you make it" when grief is sitting on your chest and you're trying to resign gracefully to people who weren't supposed to be in the room.
There's no professional playbook for showing up to a C-suite meeting the morning after losing a family member.
When Your Body Keeps the Score
Here's the part I haven't told many people. The stress didn't just live in my head—it moved into my body. Somewhere in the thick of all this, I developed a mystery illness. I lost my voice completely for two weeks. Not a cold, not laryngitis. Just... gone.
And even now, months later, it feels like there's something stuck in my throat. The doctors call it globus. After multiple ER trips, after being put all-the-way-under for procedures, after every test they could think of—they still have no idea what's wrong with me.
My body was screaming what my mouth couldn't say: this pace is not sustainable.
The Math That Actually Matters
So let's talk about that $50,000.
Yes, that's real money. That's groceries for a family of four. That's car payments. That's extracurriculars for my kids—the soccer leagues and dance classes and summer camps that fill their lives with joy. Walking away from it meant walking in faith and hope that I was making the right choice. That I wasn't trading less money just to hold onto the same amount of stress.
But here's the math they don't teach you in business school:
- What's the cost of missing another year of field trips?
- What's the price tag on a nervous system that never gets to rest?
- How do you calculate the compound interest on resentment toward work you used to love?
I couldn't keep living like the money was worth more than me. Because it's not. It never was.
The Permission I'm Giving You
If you're reading this and something is resonating—that tight feeling in your chest, that little voice saying "but I can't afford to..."—I want you to hear me:
You can.
Not recklessly. Not without planning. But that thing you're white-knuckling? The client who doesn't respect your boundaries? The opportunity that looks good but feels wrong? The pace that's slowly killing the version of you that started this journey?
You're allowed to let go.
You're allowed to choose yourself. To choose your kids. To choose your health. To choose a life that doesn't require you to apologize for having one.
I dropped $50,000 in anticipated revenue. And you know what I got back?
- Space to breathe.
- Mornings that don't start with "oh no, how many slack messages did I miss?"
- The ability to say yes to a field trip.
- Room to grieve Tiki properly, without pretending I was fine.
- The mental clarity to actually serve the clients who are right for me.
What I Know Now
I'm not going to tie this up with a bow and tell you everything is perfect. It's not. I still have moments where I second-guess myself. Where I wonder if I made the "smart" choice.
But I also had a Tuesday last month where I sat in both of my kids' holiday parties in their classrooms with zero worry. Where I took a walk in the middle of the day because I felt like it. Where I said no to something that didn't serve me and didn't feel guilty about it.
That's the $50,000. That's what I bought.
You might not need to drop $50k. Maybe yours is $5k. Maybe it's one client, one project, one commitment that's quietly draining you. Whatever it is—whatever number represents your freedom—I hope this gives you permission to do the math differently.
Because here's the truth I've learned the hard way: Burnout doesn't send a calendar invite. It shows up the morning after your dog dies, in a meeting room full of executives, while your tears short-circuit your professional mask.
Don't wait for that moment.
