A few years ago, I quit writing a book. 

 

I've actually quit book projects a few times. I've quit co-writing projects, I've quit solo writing projects… I've quit book ideas that were still in the idea stage, and I've even quit almost-finished book drafts. That's right — once, I had a bunch of content written, and I quit that project anyway. 

 

In other words — I've got lots of experience with quitting book projects.

 

And thanks to all of those quits, I can share this big announcement: I've officially signed with Folio Literary Management. I'm now a represented author, backed by one of the top literary agencies in the country. And we're currently shopping my book proposal to major publishers. (!)

 

Without a doubt, I wouldn't be here if I hadn't quit all those other projects.

 

Each time, I had good reasons for quitting. The idea wasn't right, or the timing wasn't right, or the project just wasn't good enough — and I knew it. I wasn't quitting out of fear. I was trusting my instincts. Giving things a real shot, learning they wouldn't work, and moving on.

 

Every failed attempt pointed me somewhere better. 

Every quit made room for this.

 

 

I don't think of quits as failures. Instead, I think of them as research. 

 

Or, put another way — quitting can be the tuition cost for the expensive-but-helpful School of Lessons Learned. (I have quite a few degrees from there…)

 

We're taught that persistence is the ultimate virtue. And, yes, persistence can be important — when you're pursuing the right thing in the best way for you. But quitting is not the opposite of success. The most successful people are not the ones who never quit. They're the ones who know what to quit, and when.

 

The ones who know the why behind their projects — and who are comfortable with pivoting when their work isn't aligning with their overall mission or end goal.

 

In those cases, quitting isn't failing. It's strategy. 

 

 

So if there's something you've been holding on to — whether out of obligation, or sunk cost, or that unconscious one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, or fear of what quitting might say about you — consider this your big, shiny permission slip.

 

The right quit might be the best move you make all year.

 

After all, quitting something doesn't mean giving up. Sometimes, we're just clearing the runway.

I really wanted to love Tai Chi. I really did. It *seems* like something that I would like. I do yoga (almost) every day. I have dabbled in martial arts classes. Meditation is something I enjoy — even though I am not particularly good at it. And I love dance in many different forms. 

 

So it makes sense that I would like Tai Chi, right?

 

I tried to like it. I mean, I really, really tried.

 

Different styles, instructors, times of the day, and length of classes… but no matter the change, I just never felt it.

 

I was gritting my way through each Tai Chi lesson and counting down the moment until it was OVER. And when it was over, I felt irritated instead of energized.

 

But as I persevered through yet another lesson, I had to admit to myself — maybe this just isn't for me. 

 

 

Reframing my experience as a season of experimentation rather than a failure has helped me look back on my Tai Chi era (short though it was) as an important lesson learned. It is ok to walk away from something that is not serving me — especially a wellness practice that is not serving my wellness!

 

Sometimes, the best thing we can do is to give ourselves permission to walk away. And that’s what I did. And while Tai Chi is not for me, I can appreciate and respect that it IS the thing for many other people. Mindfully quitting also gives me the time to try something new to see if it fits!