In December 2023, I cut ties with the agency I’d been working for, declaring my stint in tech finished. My mom’s passing earlier that year left more than a void—it made me question the core of my life: What was I spending my time on, and why did it matter? I saw I couldn’t keep pouring myself into an industry that mostly worshipped profit while ignoring what makes us human. I could have searched for the exceptions but needed an immediate solution.
Walking away from tech felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing how to swim. For the first time since I was twenty, I was broke—scraping by on savings, bouncing among thirteen apartments across Mexico. Committing to a lease felt like shackles while unemployment hovered like a dark cloud. I lied to myself, calling it “cutting fat” instead of admitting I didn’t want to spend money on food.
2024 became a carousel of chaos, especially in housing. One week, I’d settle somewhere; two days later, I’d be packing again. One night, I ended up in a park at 11 p.m. when my Airbnb got canceled at the last minute. My suitcases followed me everywhere, and I avoided unpacking—planting roots felt too heavy. My wardrobe? A constant shuffle of the same shorts and T-shirt, dodging the chore of ironing clothes that would wrinkle again anyway.
But this wandering life wasn’t new. At fifteen, I left home for college and lived in “pensiones” run by older women who offered little more than a bed and a thin breakfast—often just a cracker and a slice of cheese. Five years of bleak accommodations fed my restless streak. By the time I began working for U.S. companies at 19, I had perfected the art of never physically settling, drifting from Cartagena to Lima, Mexico City to Marrakesh, Porto to Amsterdam, never feeling at home.
Leaving tech wasn’t just a career shift; it was a rebellion against a toxic culture that corroded my spirit. People behaved like puppets of profit, faking concern for noble causes—like reducing wealth gaps—while serving the bottom line. Conversations felt like webs of deceit, with public praise masking private scorn. It was a theater of insincerity. I refused to go back.
The toll ran deeper than my career. In 2023, my mom lay in a hospital bed, fighting cancer; a few feet away, I lay on an IV, undone by stress. Both of us were hooked to machines, yet my mind still drifted to deadlines and tasks—deadlines while my mom struggled for her life. In hindsight, I see how I poured my energy into a shapeless chase, something I couldn’t define.
Money-wise, 2024 threw me back to my teenage struggles. I remember a date when I silently prayed she wouldn’t order drinks because I’d have to ration my spending the next day. I skimped on meals and re-wore clothes, but hope refused to die.
Then, from that fog, came breakthroughs I “knew” would come but didn’t know when. I launched a newsletter on critical thinking, advised AI research firms on communications, and even became a fractional marketing director for a salmon company (yes, salmon). Salsa dancing, of all things, seized my focus, and soon, in a city of 30 million, people recognized me for it. I also ran a school’s marketing, hosted Great Books seminars, reignited my thirst for learning, and slashed my social media use to ninety minutes daily.
Thinking about how 2023—steeped in loneliness and loss—turned into 2024, a year of new foundations, I marvel at my stubborn will not to return to what I was used to doing. I turned down jobs that clashed with my values, weathered hardships, and stayed in one city for over six months—a first in years. I met wonderful people from every corner of life: romance, casual friendships, business, and more. None of it would’ve happened if I’d clung to a safe tech paycheck or kept moving nonstop. Yet, in the process, I realized I was no longer a disillusioned tech worker but a self-driven creative forging my own path.
Now, as 2025 begins, those small steps yield results. I feel more sure about winning grants and fellowships I once missed, possibly funding the MVP for a future school or enrichment program in the Global South. I secured the job I pictured in January 2024, now host seminars on economics, politics, and Latin American literature, and have made good progress in my master’s program.
Significantly dropping money’s hold—at least for now—changed me. Living off my savings crushed the fear that once bound me to tech. I realized I could survive because I had family, friends, and strangers who’d help if all else failed. Freed from constant money worries, life began to flow in surprising ways. It was messy, chaotic, and mine.
My sense of self has changed too. At sixteen, I brimmed with cocky confidence—convinced I’d pull off grand feats without proof. Now, I’ve worked with Fortune 100 companies, guided executives thrice my age through crises, and seen my “delusional confidence” affirmed by people who’ve climbed real mountains themselves. Some call it arrogance. I treat it as a belief that we’re meant for more. Watching how many people let doubt devour them, I choose not to live that way.
Looking at 2025, my goal is simple. I plan to keep doing what I’m meant to—and maybe, just maybe, make it to the Croatian Summer Salsa Festival. Beyond that, I’ll let the year unfold. I’ve learned how fast life can pivot when you stop forcing it: one phone call can land a dream client, and a few texts can spark a new project.
Life has reminded me that letting go and trusting yourself is the only way to reap any reward.
Love
You are right, we are meant for more.