The Morning Everything Changed

 The sun rose over the rolling hills of the Palouse, and I sat on my porch, drinking my coffee. Not that I needed it. I was already jittery from the nerves that had knotted my stomach into a twisted mess. But the warmth of it on my tongue grounded me in something familiar — something I was desperate for, knowing what was coming in just a few hours.


Since I was seventeen, there’s only been one time in my life when I didn’t work. It was 2012. The world was finally starting to crawl out of the recession — not that I noticed, because I’d been poor since the moment I left my grandparents’ house — and I’d just lost my job. Trying to find another at that time was like looking for a needle in a haystack.


And to top it off, I was pregnant.


No employer will ever tell you they’re not hiring you because you’re pregnant. Instead, they’ll tell you that you’re just “not a good fit.” I heard that one too many times to count. It took two years to finally find work again — and I’ve had a job ever since. Even when switching companies or chasing a different career, I always made sure something was lined up before I quit.


But this time was different.


This time, I knew I was walking away with nothing else lined up. And I did it anyway.


I’d given my employer a two-week deadline to resolve an issue with another employee — one that myself and several others had filed multiple complaints against. When I submitted my second formal complaint — keyword formal — I included not just the complaint itself but a detailed timeline: two and a half years of documented abuse from this individual. It was seven pages long and ended with a two-week deadline for a resolution.


I knew the odds were low that anything would change. I was prepared with my resignation letter. What I wasn’t prepared for was the company’s “solution” — to sell off my entire department to the highest (or, from what I’ve heard, lowest) bidder. Why? Because my team happened to be made up of the same people who’d also spoken up.


So, I walked out that day.


Unsure if DoorDash would be enough to cover the bills (spoiler: it’s not) and with no idea where I’d go next. The job market here is terrible, and as the only one with a car in my family, I’d need an employer willing to give me that golden schedule — 9 to 2, weekends and holidays off. The odds? Practically nonexistent.


But in that fear, something unexpected happened.


To quiet my anxiety, I started making time for myself in the mornings — to carve out a space that was just mine. That’s when I found Pups and Cups, the local coffee shop that became my sanctuary.


It started small — morning journaling, reading nonfiction, reminding myself I still had a voice. Within a few weeks, I started writing my book in those same hours. And a few weeks after that, sitting at my usual booth with my usual drink, I started researching self-publishing.


Financially, I wish I hadn’t quit. The pay was good. But the environment had been crushing my mental health. Once I left, others followed — and eventually, the problem employee was let go.


I walked away with nothing, but I walked away free.


And in that space — that uncomfortable, terrifying, liberating space — Comatose was born.


Because sometimes, we have to be pushed into discomfort to finally start creating the life we’re meant to live.


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