Pause. Quit. Wait. (Without it Costing an Arm)

Recently, after several years of intense focus, thousands of hours of deep commitment, and sacrifices in personal health and wellbeing, I made the decision to quit my PhD.

I had built my life — really, my identity — around something I’d wanted for twenty years but had never had the chance to pursue. And then, in a moment, I went from all-in to all-out. It happened like waking up. Like suddenly getting a joke. Like one world ending with a snap of the fingers, and a yawning chasm opening up behind it.

It felt like failure.

Like I’d let myself down. Like I’d have to sheepishly tell people I couldn’t hack it. That I’d burned out. That I didn’t have a plan.

But I did. A strange one. A simple one. One that I think might help you, if you’re staring down something hard.

Pause. Quit. Wait.

1. Pause.

I stopped. I looked honestly at what I was doing. Why I was doing it. Who I was becoming.

2. Quit.

I stepped away from the structure I’d worked so hard to build — not because I couldn’t keep going, but because I knew it was no longer taking me where I needed to go.

3. Wait.

I didn’t rush to fill the space. I sat in it. Felt the grief, the freedom, the quiet. Waited to see what would come next.

And here’s why the pause is the most important.

There’s an old Zen story. A man named Bodhidharma — known as the “Barbarian from the West” — brought the teachings of the Dharma from India into China. He found a cave, faced a wall, and meditated in silence. He refused to speak or teach.

A young man named Huike heard about the great master and came to learn. He stood outside the cave. But Bodhidharma ignored him.

Huike waited.

Through snow and wind, through hunger and loneliness, he stayed. He paused. He sat through doubt and fear and the urge to leave. Until he was sure.

Then, stomping into the cave, he cut off his own arm.

“This is how much I want to learn.”

And Bodhidharma replied, “Now I will teach you.”

It’s not about violence. It’s about clarity. About commitment. About the transformation that begins after the pause.

Sometimes you don’t need to cut off your arm. You need to cut the crap.
You need to know why you’re doing something — and what price you’re willing to pay.

If it’s not worth it, quit. Walk away. And if it is? Be ready to suffer for it. Because anything that truly matters will ask more of you than comfort allows.

And after you quit — or commit — wait. Let the aftershocks settle. Let the silence teach you. Let life surprise you.

I gave up one arm to pursue a PhD. I wasn’t prepared to give up the other.

It wasn’t worth it.

But the writing — the ideas, the desire to reach someone, even just one person — that might be. Writing might be worth the second arm.

As I sit now, waiting to hear back from agents, wondering if this book has a future, maybe it’s time for another pause. To see if this game is worth the candle.

We’ll see.