The first taste of freedom wasn’t a sudden leap—it was a series of test drives that taught me what early retirement feels like. Per diem work (four shifts monthly), then contract work (six shifts), and finally the real tests: two months off in 2023, four months in 2024, and now six months and counting in 2025.
The First Morning
On the very first day of my initial two-month break, I woke up and felt something I hadn’t experienced in years: instant relief. No impossible tasks waiting for me. No life-or-death decisions. No responsibility for trying to accomplish what three people should be doing.
I could just take care of myself.
Watching the days stretch out on my calendar with no work commitments, I thought: “Finally. This is what I’ve been working toward. To do what I want, when I want, with whom I want.” The scariest part had been taking that leap, hoping the parachute would work. I’d built up every protection I could think of, but there’s always that nagging “what if” eating away at your confidence. But after jumping and seeing the parachute deploy perfectly—everything really would be okay—things got easier.
What Freedom Actually Feels Like
My mornings now are a stark contrast to the old panic. Instead of jolting awake at 3am wondering if I’d made a fatal error, I wake up between 8 and 9:30am with no alarm. I wash my face, shower, have a banana while watching the world come to life around me.
Then comes my favorite part: long walks. An hour or two on city streets or quiet beaches, watching the world’s hustle and bustle from a peaceful distance. I remember one morning in Bali, riding my scooter to a local grocery store for yogurt, granola, and watermelon. I drove down to the beach, sat on the steps watching the ocean waves, shop owners setting up for the day, joggers passing by. At that moment, I understood what true freedom felt like.
The contrast is jarring when I think about it. Where I used to grab vending machine food at 2am during a 14-hour shift, now I plan day trips to explore different areas. Where I used to wake up in panic attacks, I now fall asleep when I’m tired and wake up refreshed. For the first time in years, I feel completely human again.
The Health Transformation
The most profound change? My mental health problems almost completely disappeared. The depression lifted. The anxiety vanished. That middle-of-the-night panic wondering if I’d missed something critical or made a mistake that could hurt someone—gone.
My anxiety was so tightly linked to work that stepping away for months at a time made life feel manageable again. I started eating real food instead of comfort food or whatever I could grab from a vending machine during a night shift. My body began healing from years of abuse I’d put it through.
What Early Retirement Feels Like vs. What I Expected
The reality differs sharply from the fantasy. I expected immediate bliss, but what early retirement feels like day-to-day is more nuanced. There’s genuine freedom, yes, but also unexpected guilt about not being “productive.” The mental health benefits were bigger than anticipated, while the social isolation was something I hadn’t planned for.
The Guilt Nobody Talks About
But here’s what the FIRE blogs don’t tell you: sometimes I feel guilty about my freedom. I live a basic routine now—wake up, personal time, catch up on podcasts or YouTube, respond to messages, find good food, walk the beach, plan trips, meet new people. Most days are wonderfully ordinary.
Yet sometimes I think, “I worked so hard for this, and I’m just chilling at home today.” There’s this nagging voice asking if I’m wasting my freedom, if I should be doing something more productive or meaningful.
I realize now I didn’t plan well for life after escape. I was so laser-focused on getting to the finish line, so miserable in my situation, that I couldn’t think beyond just getting out. It’s a common theme in the FIRE community—obsessing over the numbers while not planning for what comes after. Now I’m paying the price, floating somewhat aimlessly while figuring out what’s next.
The Realization That Changed Everything
The certainty that I’d never go back didn’t come all at once. It crystallized as I realized this wasn’t about one bad employer or region—the entire industry is toxic. Nearly every story I’ve heard from colleagues across the country has been negative, regardless of location. It’s lifesaving work that takes a devastating toll on the people who do it long-term.
I remember one particularly brutal night: three patients to manage, phones constantly ringing, multiple hospitals to coordinate with. I was doing the work of three or four people while the stress felt unbearable. It was unfair to me, my coworkers, and our patients, but there wasn’t enough staff. I was the one most trusted to handle the impossible workload.
The realization was quiet but profound: I was killing myself so other people could live. That wasn’t what I signed up for, and it wasn’t fair to anyone involved.
Finding Worth Again
The freedom has made me feel like I’m worth something beyond my productivity. I knew the work I was doing impacted lives I’d never meet, but it came at the cost of my mental and physical health. Now I get to focus on me.
If the industry improved—if working conditions became humane—I might consider going back. Not because I need the money, but because I believe in the mission. But that’s a big “if.”
Relationships still need work, and I’m trying to figure out how to address that part of my life. But for the first time in decades, I have the mental space and energy to even consider it.
What’s Next?
I don’t have all the answers about what comes next, and I’m learning to be okay with that uncertainty. What I do know is this: if my story of escape can help even one person stuck in a toxic situation realize there’s another way, then sharing it becomes part of my new mission.
The work of helping people find their own path to freedom might just be the most meaningful thing I’ve ever done—and this time, it won’t cost me my health to do it.