My Last Year in My 30s: Leaving a Toxic Job, Choosing Myself, and Entering 40 with Courage

I didn’t tiptoe through the last year of my 30s. I kicked the damn door down.

I’d made a promise to myself: this year was going to be intentional, wholehearted, and the best yet. And did I pull it off? Hell yes. But it didn’t come wrapped in ribbons or neat Instagrammable boxes. It came with tears, sleepless nights, belly laughs, and a spectacular life detonation just days after turning 38.

Because here’s the truth: I blew up my life.

I started saying no. No to people who didn’t accept that I knew my worth. No to a workplace that was basically a black hole — you pour in your energy, creativity, and sanity, and it spits out… nothing. And the damage isn’t just “in your head.” Research shows toxic workplaces don’t just stress you out — they can actually make you sick. Chronic stress ramps up your cortisol, wrecks your sleep, fuels anxiety and depression, and even increases your risk of heart disease. All that, just to sit under flickering lights and trade your joy for a paycheck.

So when my doctor looked me dead in the eye and said, “Many people don’t take my advice. I hope you do. Quit your job.” — I finally listened. I walked away.

And instead of pouring myself into something that drained me, I started pouring myself into me.

Now, am I “successful”? Depends on how you measure it.

Am I richer? Ummm… no.

Am I wealthier? Oh, hell yeah.

Because wealth isn’t about the numbers in my bank account. It’s about the rhythm of my days, the meaning stitched into the ordinary, the things that quietly sustain me. Wealth looks like this:

I make pottery for our everyday rituals. Cups that hold morning coffee, bowls that cradle shared meals, vases that carry a single stem from the garden — simple objects that become companions in daily life. Clay reminds me that beauty doesn’t need to shout; sometimes it just needs to sit quietly beside us.

I write for our children. Stories that plant seeds of wonder, kindness, and gratitude — because the words we give them now shape the world they’ll one day build.

I make art. Not for galleries or fame, but because creating keeps me tethered to myself, to beauty, and to joy.

I write random blogs that soothe my soul. Words tumble out, messy and unfiltered, and somehow they land as little lifeboats for me (and maybe for you too).

I make YouTube videos that are filled with sidebars and tangents. Because life isn’t linear, and sometimes the best conversations wander off the map.

I run workshops where you can get your hands dirty and your hearts full. Clay has this sneaky way of softening people — walls come down, laughter bubbles up, and strangers leave as friends.

I work with children and their grown-ups, and clay brings out conversations that don’t happen in fluorescent-lit offices. In the mud, kids talk about their worlds, parents reflect, and everyone remembers how to play again.

I engage with people on a deeper level. No more polite surface chatter — clay makes space for honesty, for vulnerability, for being seen.

I get to mind my own small business, my way. Whistle & Page isn’t just a business; it’s my heartbeat. Eleven years of shaping clay, shaping stories, and shaping a life that feels like mine.

And sometimes, I sit on the couch all morning mending my kid’s pants while the dogs sleep in the mudroom.

That’s wealth.

And look, I used to get paid really well. The kind of pay that covered Netflix, takeaway Fridays, and the illusion of security. But the truth is, no paycheque was ever worth the cost of my soul being crushed on the daily. No salary could justify watching my spark dim, bit by bit, under fluorescent lights and empty deadlines. I realised I’d rather earn less and live more — with muddy hands, a loud laugh, and a spark that refuses to go out.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Self-doubt didn’t just disappear the moment I walked out of that office. I still wake up at 3am, heart racing, worrying about whether I’ve contributed enough to my superannuation (spoiler: I haven’t). I still wonder how on earth I’ll ever fund the dream studio I picture in my head — the one with light streaming in, shelves full of clay stories waiting to be told, and space big enough to hold all the people and conversations I know are coming.

But then I remember: Whistle & Page just turned 11. Eleven years of muddy joy, slow growth, triumphs stitched in with failures, and every single piece being one-of-a-kind, just like the life I’ve built. Eleven years of proof that choosing myself, even when it terrified me, was worth it.

The last year of my 30s wasn’t easy. It was raw. It was brave. It was funny and messy and tear-streaked. It was resilience and freedom, stitched together with clay-stained hands and stubborn belief.

And maybe that’s the real success: knowing I said yes to myself, even when it was hard.

As I step into the next decade, I’m carrying it all — the grit, the grief, the belly laughs, and the middle-of-the-night panic spirals. But most of all, I’m carrying pride.

Because I didn’t just survive my last year of my 30s.

I lived it.

Until next time,
Nawsheen, your (40-year-old) friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.