I had a dream. I wanted to write books. I had been living in Manhattan and working twelve hours a day in order to pay the bills. Like so many people who live hand-to-mouth, I was living to work: get up at the crack of dawn, head to work (in the winter in the dark!), eat breakfast and lunch at my desk, return home from work around 7 o’clock (in the winter in the dark!), eat dinner, go to bed. Rinse, repeat.

I wasn’t happy at my job. I spent my days organizing my boss’s calendar, answering his phone, ordering his lunch, picking up his dry cleaning, making his dinner reservations. Long before I ended my day, he left the office to catch a train out to the suburbs to his family in their beautiful house. Don’t get me wrong, there is absolutely nothing the matter with him working successfully and enjoying the fruits of his labors. He earned that job, that position, and that house. And there was certainly nothing wrong with my job. In fact, it was a very good and respectful job, but it just wasn’t for me. I felt trapped.

Four years ago, my mother’s cancer came back with a vengeance. My sister, Patty, lives in Virginia just outside Washington, D.C. She and I took turns alternating weekends to travel to our hometown in Upstate New York to be with her and care for her. Mom fought hard through several painful operations and long chemo sessions, but the cancer finally won. She passed away almost three years ago on a foggy October morning one week before her 75thbirthday.

A month after Mom died, my cousin, Raymond, came to the city for the weekend. While at brunch, he suddenly put his drink down.

“I have to say something,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Can I make an observation?”

“Yes.”

You know whenever anyone starts a sentence with “Can I make an observation?” it’s not going to be good.

“Now, I’m two beers in, so you can tell me to go jump in a lake if you want to,” he said.

I motioned for him to continue.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you work a job that you hate just to support that apartment of yours, and you can’t do what you really want to do. You have a master’s degree in creative writing, but you never have time to write.”

“And your point is?”

“If you quit your job and sell your apartment, you could work on your books. You could move back home into your Mom’s house—now yours and Patty’s house—and write your books.”

“I love the city. My friends are here. I love the museums and the restaurants and the park.”

“Did I fail to mention you also have your Mom’s car? You can drive into the city anytime you want to.”

I sat there and blinked at him. Could it be that easy?

He raised an index finger, grabbed a cocktail napkin, took out a pen, and began scribbling. “The cost of living is low upstate compared to the city. Check out these numbers.” He slid the napkin toward me. “With the money from the sale of your apartment, you could do it.”

After brunch, we walked around the Flatiron District, and although our conversation jumped from topic to topic, my mind kept wandering back to that idea he had. Could I actually quit my job and write my books? After I graduated from high school, I wanted to get as far away from my tiny hometown as humanly possible. I never in my wildest dreams imaged I would ever move back.

The following morning, my boss, who was a nasty person on his good days, was particularly heinous. At one point, he screamed at me, swore, and blamed me for something he did in Miami that weekend. Shaking and with tears in my eyes, I escaped to the ladies’ room. After a few minutes, I came out of the stall and looked at myself in the mirror. Then I started to laugh. That was it. I was done! I wanted a way out, and that morning my boss made my decision easy for me. Right there in the bathroom, I got out my phone and texted my friend, Lee, who was a realtor.

Me: Lee, can you go to my apartment today?

Lee: Yeah.

Me: Great! Get the key from the doorman. Take lots of pictures and list my apartment today!

I had been working for ten years spending my days doing something I didn’t like and all the while dreaming of a different life. I was ready to take a chance.

I know not everyone has the means to up and quit their jobs. I had an apartment I could sell. I didn’t have a husband or kids to consider. That said, I want to encourage anyone out there reading this blog who isn’t happy with aspects of your life to think about the possibilities. I had been sleepwalking through my days, doing the same thing over and over. Spinning my wheels. It never occurred to me that I could walk away and do something different—something I dreamed of doing.

I think so many people, me included, feel they need to live a certain lifestyle, have certain possessions, wear certain clothes, drive a certain car. It reminds me of the book The Power of Half: One Family’s Decision to Stop Taking and Start Giving Back by Kevin Salwen. The book describes how the Salwen family sold their huge house, bought a house half the size and half the cost in order to give that money away to a charity. Salwen points out that many of us have more than enough of what we need be it time or lattes, or iTunes downloads, or clothes in the closet. So, for those of you out there who might find yourselves spinning your wheels, I’d like to invite you to think outside the box. What would it take for you to live a better life?

Is trying something new scary? You bet it is. Is it risky? Yes, it can be. Not long after my apartment went on the market, I received an offer. As soon as we got the closing date, I gave my two weeks notice. I sold most of my furniture, packed whatever was left in a small U-Haul, put my cat in his carrier in the cab, and pulled away from the curb. As soon as I crossed the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey, I pulled off into a parking lot, turned off the engine, and sat behind the wheel for a moment. I was scared, but I was excited at the same time. I turned the truck back on and pulled back onto the highway.

I have a dream. I want to write books, and that’s just what I’m doing. What do you want to do? How can you make your life better? Just imagine the possibilities.