Not long ago, I did something thousands of people do every day. I left my job.

But it wasn't an everyday event for me - at 42, it was a first. Oh, I'd left jobs before, always because of external circumstances: divorce, relocating, going back to college, even a layoff. This time it was me.

It wasn't such a bad job -- it was just that I thought I'd been hired as a technical writer, only I turned out to be the office Girl/Woman Friday. And the job had some exceptional pluses, not the least of which was my salary. "Remember, twelve dollars an hour!" my father would say whenever I lamented about the lack of challenge in my work. "For twelve dollars an hour I'll do it!" My husband would listen patiently to my latest gripe, then bring up the mortgage payment on our new house. Which, by the way, was going up due to taxes. My daughters simply rolled their eyes. "So quit," said my then-nineteen-year old. Not that she ever would-her work ethic could put Bill Gates to shame.

But I soldiered on, reminding myself of that big mortgage. And of the amazing benefits I was thinking of sacrificing if I left. Paid vacation, sick leave and holidays. Not to mention an extremely generous Christmas bonus that would reward my staying power if I could only hang on a little longer.

"It's easier to find a job when you already have one," said my parents, both career academics who have been gainfully and steadily employed since adolescence. With that in mind, I'd peruse the Sunday classified ads, occasionally sending my resume to jobs that looked interesting. After diligent study on how to write attention-grabbing cover letters, I got some interviews, but no offers.

My mother suggested one more coping mechanism: if I couldn't change the job, I could change how I felt about it. I turned to the baby boomer's first line of defense: self-help books. How to find spirituality in the workplace. How to create work you love. How to be simply abundant. And my personal favorite, How to make a living without a job.

Still, the epiphany I sought eluded me. After nearly two years, my job still drained me of energy, of creativity, of self-respect. I often felt put upon, and worse, invisible. However, I reminded myself that if I didn't like my work, I enjoyed my workmates immensely. I looked forward to the small connections I made each day, the chats about hobbies, children, and pets. Besides the camaraderie, I valued the real family feeling among the staff -- the reason I'd been able to keep going this long.

The last indignity came as a surprise. I was suddenly faced with my career crisis/moment of truth. But at least I had the weekend to think about my future: whether to leave my job or swallow my pride and keep going. The following day, the momentous decision I had to make weighed heavily on me, but I was determined to carry on as usual. When I phoned my mother to talk about my daughter's twentieth birthday party that evening, I did my best to concentrate on the dinner arrangements we were making. But in the middle of debating roast chicken versus pasta, to my horror, I burst into tears.

I'd never cried on my mother's shoulder before, literally or figuratively, but I couldn't hold my job grief in any longer. I tearfully related the circumstances to her, and in the pause that followed, I wondered just how foolish I was being. How thin-skinned, how petty. Her words will stay with me always. "Susan," she said, "the Universe is screaming."

As in "Leave!" It was all I needed. "Leap and the net will appear," as I'd read in my self-help odyssey. I turned to my husband, who had overheard the conversation, and silently asked for his support. With his usual forbearance that never fails to nourish my spirit, he saw, and understood, that the time had come to make my leap. Leaving was a done deal. I just had to wait for Monday morning.

Two sleepless nights passed before Monday finally dawned, and after several nerve-wracking hours of cold feet, I submitted my letter of resignation to the boss. Though I felt confusion and hurt feelings vibrating through the front office, I was determined to get through my two weeks' notice with some measure of grace and dignity. But as soon as my co-workers heard I was leaving, they began treating me as if they weren't sure what to do with me. I felt a subtle withdrawal -- I was no longer an insider, one who belonged. They knew, of course, why I was leaving. Some workmates, I could tell, felt sorry for me. Others, I was sure, felt I was deserting the ship. Or that I was a fool to leave such a cushy position.

The last hour of the last day came, and it was time for what I'd dreaded: saying goodbye. It became easier when I received a hug from a woman whose sheer intelligence and awesome efficiency had always intimidated me a little. I briskly shook hands with the guys, including one I wanted to hug but didn't. My supervisor was supportive to the end, although her job will be more difficult because of my departure. As soon as it warms up, I'll transplant her goodbye gift of bronze chrysanthemums to the flower bed out front, but her hearty bearhug has already put down roots in my memory. I thought I might feel like crying, but the only point tears seemed close was when one of the young engineers said he knows he'll see my book on the shelves someday. Up to that moment, I hadn't known he was aware I was writing one. As I walked out of that dim downstairs office into the bright afternoon, I waited for the overwhelming joy or relief I was sure would come to me. But I didn't feel much of anything. Not even a TGIF feeling. Just a little numb.

I'm still waiting for that epiphany. The breakthrough that will tell me where to go from here. But in making the leap, small nets have actually appeared: a couple of freelance writing gigs with local newspapers, the prospect of new friendships within my writer's group. And the "good for you's" I've received from friends when I tell them I left a spirit-draining job.

Sometimes I feel I'm in free fall, especially when I consider the lifestyle changes my family must make until I find another line of work. But a quote from Anais Nin, which I shall paraphrase here, showed up numerous times in the books I'd devoured and continues to comfort me: The day came when the risk it took for me to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. In practical terms, staying at that job was far more costly to the spirit than leaving would be to the family exchequer.

The advice to follow one's bliss may be a cliché, but if the last weeks have taught me anything, it's this: sometimes you have to trust that your leap in the dark will eventually bring you into the light.