I didn’t leave a company. I left a version of myself.
Four nights ago, under the moonlight by Lake Geneva, I stood by the water with Focs by my side.
In my hand: a small stack of paper notes — each one holding something I was ready to release.
The fire was small.
But the moment wasn’t.
I watched the words burn,
and realised something inside me was burning too.
I leave behind all known routines, habits, and comforts.
I leave behind colleagues who became friends.
I leave behind a home.
I leave behind the knowledge of what I do each day — the kind of knowledge that builds quiet confidence.
I leave behind comfortable holidays, public holidays, regular working hours, structure. I leave behind many things that once gave me my sense of self-worth.
I leave behind a company that stood behind me during dark times —and the same company that, at times, wanted to make me responsible for failure of the system.
I leave behind an environment that feels stuck, searching for answers that nobody yet has.
And I leave behind the place that gave me the foundation for Secure Base Leadership, where I met Susan, and where my coaching identity began to grow.
I leave behind a unit I felt deeply responsible for — one that I shaped, and that shaped me.
As the paper curled and turned to ash, the lake reflected the copper light back at me.
The water was still.
The night silent.
For a moment, it felt as if time paused to witness.
It wasn’t about forgetting.
It was about honouring.
The quiet space between who I was and who I’m becoming.
William Bridges, in his book Transitions, describes three stages of change:
Endings. The Neutral Zone. New Beginnings.
We often want to skip the first and rush to the last.
But endings deserve a ritual.
They’re not simply about leaving something behind —
they’re about creating emotional space for the new to emerge.
The neutral zone that follows can feel disorienting — full of signals, chance encounters, and quiet moments that slowly start to make sense.
That’s where I am now.
And it’s both unsettling and beautiful.
This ritual wasn’t about closure.
It was about trust.
Trust that the ashes I released will find their way into something new.
We all face that moment when the old no longer fits,
and the new isn’t ready yet.
And so I ask myself — and you, if you find yourself between chapters:
What do you need to let go of right now? What is quietly waiting in the wings of your life — ready for its entrance?
Author’s Note
I wrote this piece not to close a chapter, but to honour it.
Transitions are rarely clean. They are tender, messy, and deeply human.
This ritual by the lake was my way of saying goodbye to a version of myself I had outgrown — the one who knew what to do, who was always in control.
Endings always come first.
And sometimes, standing still in that space between fire and water is the bravest thing we can do.
