I Quit.

I quit the money, status, and the lie that I was okay. The silence that followed was terrifying. And necessary.

At 34, I had a high-paying tech career, three kids, and a wife I adored.

At 35, I found myself curled up on the cold tile of my shower floor with water running over me to drown out my screams.

Ariana was gone.

The woman I had been with since I was eighteen years old.

The woman I vowed to spend the rest of my life with.

The woman who made me promise to keep living.

She was gone.

And I was still here, in a career that suddenly felt like wearing someone else's skin.

The Tech World Moves Fast. Grief Moves Slow.

My calendar was full of meetings. My inbox was full of unanswered questions.

And I was stuck in the moment she took her last breath.

I would be in a virtual meeting, struggling to hear the words spilling out through my speakers and clenching my jaw to hold in my cries.

They were talking about product pain points, while I was experiencing deep physical pain.

I was helping build tools to connect people while feeling completely disconnected from myself and humanity.

Grief exists beyond the PTO policies.

After the funeral, when the flowers wilted and the casseroles stopped coming, I was expected to be "back."

Back to normal.

Back to productive.

Back to caring about quarterly goals.

But there is no back when your wife dies. There's only through.

When Your Emotions Are Too Strong to Hold, You Write.

I started writing because my body wasn't strong enough to cage my emotions.

I would unleash my grief onto the blank pages on my screen; the raw, ugly truths of what was happening.

I wrote about making Ariana cry over budgets while she was dying.

I wrote about being her caretaker but failing at being her companion.

I wrote about the guilt that comes with every day she'll never see.

It was not beautifully constructed prose.

It was the unencumbered truth of what I was feeling and what I was trying to deny.

I Chose Discomfort and Fear.

For the next three years after Ariana died, I would go to sleep each night thinking about Ariana's last coherent words to me: "You have to keep living; your work is not done here. You have big things to do."

I only ever believed them to be a supportive partner's last encouragement.

An attempt to soothe the ache festering in the center of my soul.

But over time, the words grew from a whisper to a shout, and I could no longer excuse them away.

It was time to dedicate myself to my community.

The grievers.

Those with nowhere else to go.

Those who wanted to feel whole again.

Those crying on their shower floors.

It was time to leave my career in tech behind.

Financial Suicide

Leaving tech felt like financial suicide.

I was giving up a financially comfortable life. One where money was of zero concern.

I was foregoing decades of experience and dedication to start all over again.

On the outside, it looked like I was giving up or giving in to my grief and playing a victim of circumstances.

But I wasn't giving in to my grief; I was honoring it.

Every "no" I said to tech was a "yes" to something deeper.

Every dollar I didn't earn in tech was an investment in a mission that mattered.

I was building something new: A company called Unvoiced. I was starting a movement to bring grief out of the shadows.

I was writing a book and creating a voice for the voiceless.

For us.

Those left behind.

Not because I had all the answers.

But because I had lived all the questions.

Here's What They Don't Tell You

It's terrifying.

Most days, I missed the stability.

The stock vests.

The known path.

I missed feeling like I had worth in the world because of my paycheck.

But now, I was no longer able to hang my worth on the extrinsic. I was forced to look at myself in the mirror.

Naked.

Afraid.

Without an emotional anchor.

I didn't know who I was.

My identity as the "smart Silicon Valley engineer with lots of money” was dead. Gone. No more.

I was just a meme of an “entrepreneur.”

A guy "starting a company."

A "content creator."

I had no lane and no confidence.

Every conversation about my work with Unvoiced always started with, "I left my career in tech..." It was the only way I could validate my insecurity. To prove to no one that I had worth at one time.

I would catch up with friends still in the industry, and listen to the projects and latest pay raises.

It would send me into a spiral.

So, I would begin putting out feelers about a job in tech because I was embarrassed that I had nothing to show for my new life.

"I have to go back. I need the money. I can just live comfortably and sail into obscurity," became my mantra whenever fear took hold.

My mind would spin instead of sleep, trying to convince me that I had made a mistake.

It would reinforce a long-held belief that I wasn't capable of bringing anything meaningful into the world.

And right when I was ready to go on an interview and give up on my mission, a message would come in: "Thank you so much for giving me the permission to grieve."

The panic would end.

The fear would resolve.

For a few days, until the cycle started over again.

Your Loudest Critics Will Be Your Most Frightened Spectators.

When I left tech, people projected their fears onto my decision: "What if you fail?" "What if you can't support your family?" "What if no one cares about grief?"

But here's what I learned from losing Ariana: The biggest risk isn't failure. It's living a life that doesn't honor who you've become.

Grief transformed me. Pretending it didn't would have been the real betrayal.

Two years later, I can tell you this:

• I make less money than I did in tech.

• My kids have learned what it means to spend on a budget.

• My identity was shattered, both in my grief and in leaving my career, only to be built up into something that feels truly like me.

I sleep at night knowing my work matters.

I wake up aligned with my pain instead of running from it.

I'm teaching my children to pursue purpose in life, not a paycheck.

And most importantly, I'm keeping my promise to Ariana to make my life count.

If you're reading this and life feels like a coffin, know this:

• Your pain is not a liability. It's your compass.

• Your grief is not weakness. It's wisdom.

• Your story is not over. It's evolving.

The world doesn't need another person pretending to be fine. It needs people brave enough to be real.

Cancer took my wife. But it also gave me clarity: We get one life. One chance to matter. One opportunity to turn our pain into purpose.

I chose to ensure no griever walks alone. If you're walking this path too, hit reply or comment and let me know you're here.

You don't have to be fine.

You just have to be real.

- CJ

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