And as I sit across from my boss, her desk barren except for a wide-screen Mac and a packet of peanuts crumpled by the keyboard, her eyes are warm, sad almost, before she blinks that away and steels herself for the conversation, hardening her exterior for what’s to come. It’s so difficult for women in any workplace, especially, perhaps in a start-up office that’s supposed to be awake to the times, to scoff at stuffy corporate problems. Because even in an office where men in T-shirts play Ping-Pong at the table in the corner, their beards scruffy and their hair unwashed, a cheeky fuck-you to the fact that we’re a beauty company, my female boss is still wearing a suit jacket, pumps, her lashes gleaming with our brand of mascara, her nails buffed to a shine. Because she knows that she’ll be judged for anything less, and that includes compassion for a wayward employee who hasn’t set foot in here for months.

The conversation is predictable from there. They want me back in the office. They’ve been noticing a decline in my work since I became remote, and that is unacceptable. They need to set a precedent for the new hires coming in next month. They understand that I’ve been through a lot, but it’s time to get back in the saddle. That I’m jeopardizing a job that countless others would grovel at her feet for. Why would I give that up? she asks. I’ve already been promoted twice since starting three years ago. They expect more from me.

I surprise myself, then, the words leaping out of me like slippery fish. I don’t even realize I mean them until I say them. “I quit. I’m sorry, but I don’t think the company is the right fit for me.” In my head, I hear Anneliese saying those words to me, placating me as I express regret for being late on another assignment, for forgetting to answer emails that were sent during work hours. That company doesn’t seem like the right fit for you. You should be focusing on healing. On yourself. They’re sucking the life out of you. And Anneliese, who has given me such strength, let me be myself again, how could she be wrong about something like this?

And again, I see that flash of hurt in my boss’s eyes that she tries so hard to suppress, that she buries underneath a tightening of her lips into a straight line, a look of admonishment as I slip out, walk to the elevator bank I know so well. This time I don’t even look at my coworkers, but I can feel all their eyes on me, a hush across the office, the thwacking of the Ping-Pong ball paused.

Drink me in, I think. Because now I’m free of you all.