Then one question changed everything.
Five years ago, sitting in the car at a red light, I was unloading my frustrations about my new boss to my kids, who were happily waiting for their weekend in the back seat. I said things I probably shouldn’t have. “I hate my job, but I can’t quit,” I blurted, rambling about how useless I felt. My daughter jumped in, insisting I should resign and take care of her little brother. That weight felt even heavier.
As the light turned green, it dawned on me softly: I was already living the dream I once carried as a child. Driving in a foreign country, my kids in the back seat, a boy and a girl, I realized this was the picture I had sketched in my mind whenever I wondered what the future might hold. It felt like life had been breathed into the characters of my imagination.
Yet the thrill of that dream-come-true moment faded quickly. I realized I had only one life to do more than settle for a childhood dream.
Truth vs reality
I wondered if it was enduring the micromanaging bosses or if I’d simply outgrown the software engineering career. Eighteen years in IT had taught me this: peace at work had less to do with the job and everything to do with the culture, values, and integrity of those I reported to.
My life was once filled with everything except me. Exotic trips, fancy things we could now afford, Amazon boxes piling up on the porch, some unopened because I couldn’t even remember what I’d ordered. I colored my hair burgundy, cut it short, played with it because it was the only thing I was able to fully control.
Monthly boxes of designer dresses arrived at my doorstep; I rejoiced at each, or forced myself to, even as I returned half of them. Toys, vacations, house remodeling, and more stuff. But nothing touched what really ached inside.
In hindsight, I was getting my nails done when my heart needed revival.
I booked Disneyland tickets to witness magic mornings. I watched my children laugh, their joy spreading over me like sunlight. I tried to convince myself it was mine too, but deep down, I knew happiness shouldn’t be borrowed.
Every time I reached a high point in my career, the ground shifted above me. Deep down, I knew I couldn’t walk this path for decades and call it my life’s work. I longed for something stable, meaningful, and truly mine. I was tired of chasing happiness in bursts, feeling often incomplete.
Then, one day, I casually wrote an article about my experience navigating a career that had left me hollow, hoping it might help someone else. To my surprise, it did. It felt like writing woke the dead in me. That single piece rippled outward, reminding me that my pain had meaning beyond myself.
A few weeks later, my sister texted about a blogging contest at her office and asked for pointers on an exhausting weekday night. I sprang out of bed with ideas I didn’t know I still had.
Writing fueled my drained version, making me fully present with myself again.
It reminded me of my childhood, when I would grab a real or imaginary mic and host debates and interviews with my siblings and cousins. The laughter in the room refueled my energy.
I was always looking for ways to keep everyone engaged, tweaking my stories within seconds just enough to suit whoever was listening.
At home, work, or wherever I was, people often gathered around me, listening to me, their smiles and applause lighting me up like nothing else.
Ripples of impact
I noticed the difference I was making with both known and unknown people. One unexpected stage was my son’s class, where a small group formed every time I showed up in the waiting room. We filled the empty room with such vibrant energy. Fellow parents began bringing friends and family, and soon, my number was passed along to those seeking a morale boost and motivation.
The surprise and delight anchored me. I found ways to replace live storytelling with my writing: to capture and share my thoughts beyond the waiting room.
Writing became my uninterrupted speech, a space to craft, reflect, and connect. I wrote more, and then even more, during long meetings at my day job, commutes to drop and pick up my kids, grocery lines, doctors’ offices, before sunrise, and long past midnight.
Little by little, word by word, I revived the storyteller in me all over again.
After four years of writing on the side, I decided to go full-time. The more I gave, the more alive I felt. That was my aha moment: I had finally found my purpose.
It’s funny when people ask if I’d lost my mind quitting my IT job. Two decades in a niche domain, a solid title, steady pay, and a predictable path for as long as I wanted.
But then I walked away, to pursue writing with “zero experience”?
Here’s what they don’t see: I’ve been crafting stories out loud, on paper, in rooms full of family, friends, strangers—even kids at bedtime—since I spoke my first words. So no, quitting wasn’t crazy. Staying would’ve been.
Ever since childhood, whenever someone asked me, ‘What do you want to be?’ I never had a single answer. But when the question changed to, ‘What’s something you could do for hours, all your life?’ my answer was always the same: make someone smile, make their life a little brighter, a little more alive. And when I write, that answer comes to life.
Writing lets my energy flow through me effortlessly. Time disappears, my thoughts and emotions move in perfect rhythm, and I feel one with the work. It’s a state of pure flow where every word fuels the next, orchestrating the story with limitless energy.
Writing isn’t a gamble; it’s the only bet that ever made sense.
Not a leap into the unknown but a conscious step into myself.
Everyday magic
These days, sitting in Starbucks, gray strands framing my face, I drift in my own world, unnoticed, in my ordinary denim and full-sleeve tee. However, the next hour isn’t about my appearance; it’s all about how deeply I feel before I let the words slip from my thoughts to the page on the screen.
After dropping my son off at class, laptop open, notebook ready, the outside world fades into the background. This is also my favourite time of the day, when the clock freezes at my request. I don’t even notice who sits beside me or across from me at the coffee shop. If something happened at the next table, the detectives would be upset with how little I cared.
Tucked in my usual corner, I chuckle at my word breaks, tear up a little, clap at my punchlines, and sometimes, blankly stare at the wall as if it holds the answers. To a stranger, I might look unhinged. But really, I’m just in love. I am in absolute love with what I do because when your why is bigger than you, it feels like this:
A world within a world where meaning is everything.
Today, I wake up without dread to chase endless deadlines. My day isn’t enslaved to the Google Calendar. I make every moment count, doing the work I love, trading my time for meaning. After all these years, my body and mind finally dance to the same tune. I am not just writing my story; I am reliving it — the best, the worst, the ugly — through a new lens. I am letting it all go: the what-ifs, the buts, the constant inner Q&A. No more excuses to hold myself back.
I see now how everyone in my life came to me for a reason, even the wrong people showed me what truly mattered. Today, I am made of gold, with steel in the places I’ve been broken.
From that strength, my mind never stops weaving stories; lines, paragraphs, fragments from the shower to wherever I go.
Writing chose me as much as I chose it.
My everyday miracle lives in the touch of my notebook, the warmth of a coffee mug, the laptop screen opening doors to sequoia trees, and the unstoppable ideas that make me feel fully alive. Today I know: Magic isn’t only reserved for Disneyland; it lives within us, waiting to awaken.
I can make worlds appear or disappear with a single command — the joy of being a creative writer. So now:
When they ask what I do for a living,
I just say: I live in my own magic.
I am finally home in my stories — boundless and infinite, like my words.
© Tamil, 2025.
Image credit: Photo by Dmitriy Frantsev on Unsplash
My Magic Bytes 
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