• Our friendship developed during years when our lives looked very similar.
• When I took a divergent path, and she didn't understand, I thought I would lose her.
• The challenge of our differences brought us to a place of more honesty, deepening our connection.

When I told my best friend I was quitting my Wall Street legal career to spend a year camping and exploring the American West, she looked at me aghast and said, "You're joking, right?"

Her response wasn't surprising. I hadn't exactly been honest with her, or myself, about how much I longed for a very different life than the one I was living.

At the time, we were 34 years old, and during the prior 16 years of friendship, our lives had run parallel tracks, studying business in college, then pursuing demanding careers in East Coast cities. While we'd seen each other through heartbreaks and upheavals, this was more than that. This was a significant detour, and as she looked at me, her face flush with confusion, I wasn't sure the detour was something our friendship would survive.

For years, our lives aligned

Erin and I met freshman year in college as scholarship runners on a highly competitive Division I Track Team. While our four years there weren't exactly conducive to honesty or vulnerability, it bonded us in a deep way.

After graduation, we shifted our attention and drive toward corporate careers, supporting each other in these often-stressful pursuits. With our finances closely aligned, we traveled, dined, and indulged at the spa together. More than that, during those years, Erin became my anchor. She's the one I called in the middle of the night when the man I thought I was going to marry walked out, and the one who made me laugh harder than anyone else, especially amid life's disappointments.

Yet, by our early 30s, we'd only ever let ourselves be so vulnerable with each other. While I often shared my frustrations with the strain of my career, I never talked about alternatives, especially one as drastic as quitting to camp and live out of a used car.

I worried that taking a different path would end our friendship

When I decided to quit and plunge toward a very different life, Erin wasn't the only person who questioned this choice, but she was the most important. Plus, now living off my savings, I could no longer afford many activities at the center of our friendship.

When Erin came to help pack up my apartment, she continued to express skepticism about my plan to live for a while without a plan. Thinking about the infinity symbol when we said goodbye, I wasn't sure we'd ever meet back at the center.

To my surprise, she showed up for me in unexpected ways

During the early days of my trip, Erin began asking for updates on how it was going, and I began sharing details. The first night I camped alone, I sent her a photo of my tent overlooking the Colorado River and confessed how scared I was, because despite my plans to spend a year camping, I'd never actually camped by myself before that night. She responded with the same enthusiasm and encouragement that had buoyed me for years.

These conversations continued over the months that followed. When poor planning on a trail run landed me in a stranger's car for the night, she was the one I called to recount the tale and laugh over my mistakes. And on her birthday, I sent her a celebratory photograph from a 14,000-foot peak. It wasn't that she still had questions about what, exactly, I was doing with my life; it was that, at some point, she let go of her hesitations and began trying to understand my motivations.

This culminated with her request to join me for a backpacking trip — something she'd never done. We spent two nights in Arizona's Superstition Mountains, where my ease in the wilderness clashed with her tentativeness. And though we had fun, when she questioned whether I understood how to read a map as we searched for a water source, I was sure I'd never do something like that with her again.

Of course, I did, many times over, because through the friction, this truth surfaced: We'd always been very different people, and now, we were just living in those differences. The challenge of that, and her willingness to embrace it, brought us closer than ever.

Over the years, as I became more honest about who I was, she, too, became more honest about who she was. A decade later, our lives still look very different, and still, Erin is my anchor.

• I spent my 20s believing that working hard and making money were the keys to independence.
• I realized I was working so much that I had no time or energy to enjoy the life I was building.
• Years later, being an ambitious woman looks different to me. I work less and have time for myself.

I thought making a lot of money and working hard would make me happy.

In my early 20s, I got great grades and finished my undergrad in three years. By my mid-20s, I had finished my graduate degree in law while frequently working 70-hour weeks.

I leaned into the idea of being a girlboss, often working weekends or through my lunch, and focusing on making lots of money. It was a habit I saw modeled by my parents. It worked for them, and I thought it would work for me, until it didn't.

I thought hard work was the point

At 26, I worked long days at my home desk after making "hard worker" and "responsible'"my identity for years. I thought this was what an independent woman was: someone who worked constantly and optimized all of her time.

Sure, I was saving lots of money and networking, but I was often too tired on my day off to do anything. I often chose to work on Saturdays and didn't even have time to spend my hard-earned money.

Two things made me realize this wasn't a sustainable lifestyle: I once told a friend I couldn't take a 15-minute lunch break to call her, and another time I struggled to lift my full duffle bag for an upcoming trip after not working out for months.

Something had to give.

I didn't want to just recover from burnout

I was clearly burned out. I could have taken some time off to recover and come back, but then the cycle would have continued.

It helped that I spent my early 20s in Cameroon and Costa Rica, two places where work-life balance looks a lot different than it does in the US, and people live with their parents much longer. Looking back on those years when I was truly happy helped me to question what I was focusing on in my life.

I came to a new conclusion. I didn't want to simply recover after burning out. I wanted to reject the premise that burnout was the price of being an ambitious woman.

I stopped hustling toward anything

In 2022, as the COVID restrictions were lifted more and a relationship I had been in ended, I decided to travel while working a few hours per week. As a then single, childfree woman, no longer heading towards a career, I wondered what I'd replace these traditional markers of success with. The answer turned out to be nothing.

I stopped trying to hustle toward something. No job, boss, passion, or person was going to truly reward me for committing to 70-hour weeks. Nothing was worth putting off a breakfast date with myself or an unplanned walk in the park, or that 15-minute phone call I told my friend I couldn't take.

I decided to opt out of the competitive nature of the working world and instead focus on optimizing myself.

5 years later, my life looks different

Five years later, I have a life my 26-year-old self would barely recognize. I work substantially less, have built a career around writing and research for companies with values I admire, and have spent the past several years living and traveling in different countries.

I don't own a car or a home, and I'm not chasing a traditional career ladder. Instead of constantly asking what I should accomplish next, I have far more time for cooking, relationships, travel, and simply being alive.

One thing I did keep from that previous era of my life was my deep conviction that I, and all women, need to be financially independent. I have stopped suggesting that my friends work through their lunch break; instead, we talk about ethical investing and the need to always have one's own bank account.

Independence turned out to mean something else for me

The surprising part is that opting out didn't ruin my career, and I didn't feel the need to replace work with anything else. I don't think chasing a job title, a salary, or a full calendar would have made me feel secure.

I think I would have constantly felt the need to prove myself, which sounds exhausting to me now. Instead, I have the independence I sought when I was younger. It just took the form of letting go of the idea that I have to constantly prove my worth to myself.