When you’re newly 50 and the so-called “big job” comes calling, it can feel downright fated. My mother had recently passed away, our son was about to graduate from college, and the big birthday had come and gone. I was already thinking about what was next when suddenly, a job landed in my lap.

For me as a communications executive with an often-in-the-news state agency, this would be a way to take my 25 years of journalism experience and put it to use in a different way, I thought. The commute would be horrible but the salary would make up for it, I thought. After years of working from home or remotely, it would be a refreshing change to put on nice “grown-up” clothes and makeup and heels every day to go into an office, I thought. It would be a big lifestyle change for our family, but if I never gave it a try, I’d never know.

I thought.

It quickly became apparent that this job was not just a bad fit for me as a person, but in an environment in which there was little chance of success. The commute was worse than I’d imagined—curse that New Jersey traffic—and the always-on nature of the agency was mentally and physically draining in ways that were beginning to change me, and not for the better.

When they finally let me go last spring, it stung, but the humiliation quickly gave way to a sense of cosmic relief.

On the worst days at that job, I fantasized about chucking it all, moving from our too-big suburban sprawl house to a cottage at the Jersey Shore, working in a little shop in Cape May, and finishing writing the book I’d been working on for too long already.

I spent the summer licking my wounds and bumming around the shore near Cape May, where my family had spent seasons since the 1950s and where my parents had retired years ago. The more time I spent on the historic resort’s stunning beaches and sun-dappled streets, hearing the murmured conversations from fern-shaded porches, the more I wanted to find a way to make my fantasy my next reality.

After many long discussions with my husband, who is already retired and eminently portable, and with the knowledge that our son, at 23, was ready to strike out into the world on his own, we decided to go for it. Autumn was spent getting the big suburban dream house ready to sell, and winter brought visits to potential new homes—as close to the beach as we can afford. In the coming months, we’ll make the switch to the shore permanently.

I started a new job—a part-time retail gig at a tiny shop that sells gourmet peanut butter. It’s the most fun I’ve had in years, with good people, honest hard work, and an environment filled with joy. I fully intend to never wear a suit to work again.

And that book? Right now, it’s hovering around 67,000 words and almost done. My story isn’t finished.  

Amy Z. Quinn lives and writes in South Jersey.