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When I left my job, in the swirling pain and confusion of that season, a few people told me that at some point, I would be happy for this, thankful, even. That didn’t sit well with me, and it felt even worse than the clichés about closing doors and opening windows. It felt cruel: not only was I supposed to not be sad, I was supposed to be thankful? It felt inauthentic and creepy, and I swore to myself that even if I healed someday, even if the pain abated, even if I was happy again, I would never ever be thankful for this. Then, months later, I went with my family to the house of some wonderful, generous family friends. The last time I had been there was the day after I left my job. Being there again brought me back to that place, and showed me, to my surprise, the distance I had traveled in the intervening months. I looked back through my journal, and I looked out at the ocean at the same times of day, to see the same colors on the same sky, and I realized I am different. And not only different, but better, and not only better, but thankful.