November is a month where we take stock of the year that was as it fast approaches the finish line. As the weather turns cold and mushy, we find ourselves indoors more and more, and re-evaluating our life choices not only for the year, but perhaps also for the past decade. This blog entry is dedicated to all those who are fed up with the status quo and are determined, once and for all, to walk out and start over. You know who you are, so please take this to heart or maybe share it with someone who needs to hear it as well. It does not in any way reflect my current personal situation, but rather, is a piece born out of experience.
Dear Me,
I am writing to resign from you, from the life we’ve been clinging to, from the version of myself that stayed too long in a house that is dying. The door squeaks as I open it, a warning I’ve ignored for years, and the smell of mildew and dust rises to greet me like an old, cruel friend. I’ve walked these floors a thousand times, tiptoeing over cracks, pretending the walls weren’t closing in, pretending that everything could be patched and painted and made new again. But no amount of hope can fix what is rotting from the inside out. Renovation is no longer possible.
The living room is empty now, save for the ghost of laughter. The couch sags where we once leaned into each other, the wallpaper peels in long, curling strips like old regrets. Love died here quietly, like a candle snuffed out by years of neglect. I remember the warmth that used to fill this space, the conversations that spiralled into connection, the touch that made the world outside disappear. Now, all that remains are the shadows, stretching across the cracked floors, mocking me for staying.
In the kitchen, the sink is clogged with remnants of meals no one wanted to share, a stubborn symbol of nourishment refused. The stove is coated with burnt offerings of sacrifice, reminders that I gave too much, demanded too little, and slowly starved my own soul while keeping this house standing. Every cabinet holds a story of missed opportunities, unopened letters, dreams that went unspoken, buried under the weight of obligation and fear.
Upstairs, the bedrooms are unrecognisable. My reflection in the mirrors is someone I barely know. Self-esteem lies scattered across the floor like broken glass—shards of confidence, ambition, and joy I stepped on again and again to keep the peace. In the corners, the dust has thickened into suffocating walls, where bitterness has taken root, twisting silently around hope like ivy that strangles. The bed creaks with memories of nights spent awake, counting what I lost instead of dreaming of what I could still have.
The attic, once a sanctuary of imagination, is now a tomb. Boxes of unopened potential, ideas that never saw the light, are piled high under the cobwebbed rafters. I spent years climbing here, reaching for the future, only to be met by decay, by silence, by the undeniable truth that this house—and the life it has trapped me in—cannot be saved.
I am resigning from this version of myself, the one who stayed too long, who made a home of ruins, who allowed martyrdom to masquerade as love. I am resigning from tolerating spaces that suffocate my spirit, from believing that endurance equals worth. I am resigning from the lie that my presence is only valuable when it comes at the cost of my own peace.
I will walk away. I will leave behind the peeling walls, the sagging floors, the rooms where love and self-esteem died. I will close the door softly, letting the echoes of this place fade into the past. I will carry the lessons, the love that was real, the strength that survived, but not the decay, not the bitterness, not the rotting foundations of a life lived in silence.
Outside, there is air that smells like possibility, streets that lead to open doors, and sunlight that can warm a soul that has been cold for far too long. Outside, there is room to rebuild, to plant foundations that are steady, walls that nurture, rooms where laughter returns, where hope grows like wildflowers through cracks in the concrete. I do not yet know what this new home will look like, but I know it will be alive. I know it will be mine.
Thank you, old self, for enduring, for surviving, for carrying me through the storms. But our tenure in this house is over. The renovations are impossible, the ceilings will never hold. I am stepping into the unknown, not with fear, but with determination, with courage, and with the fierce belief that the best version of myself is waiting just beyond these walls.
Sincerely,
The Me Who Will Thrive
New from The Esoteric Frog:
FrogDiva Thoughts 