The promotion that made me quit

^{By Hannah Sheridan}

I’d be lying if I said this was the best decision I ever made.

It was 2023 and I’d been at J.P. Morgan for roughly five years. I started in the Corporate & Investment Bank, in the Financial Sponsors Group — the team that covered private equity clients. On paper, the work sounded glamorous: advising billion-dollar funds, reviewing data rooms, building decks for deals that made the headlines.

In reality, it was hours of Excel models, late-night slide edits, and endless rounds of approvals from compliance and senior bankers who wanted to argue over commas.

By the time I was promoted to senior associate, the shine had dulled. Still, I told myself if I just kept climbing, if I landed the right title or the right salary, maybe I’d finally feel the pride everyone else seemed to feel.

The reality of it

Post-covid, when the corporate world started to resume normalcy, we were on a mandatory hybrid schedule. Three days in-office, no exceptions. Which meant three days a week I boarded the 6:52 a.m. train surrounded by commuters in stiff wool coats with vacant stares.

The closer the train crept to Secaucus for my transfer to Penn, the more my chest tightened with dread. Not just dread for my walk across midtown or the back-to-back meetings, but for the entire charade: the polite but forced small talk in common areas, the way “collaboration” really meant twenty people circling a document until it had no soul left, and me trying to convince myself that having a Starbucks in the building counted as a perk.

By the time I walked into 383 Madison, I already felt hollowed out.

I hated this job. But you don’t just leave a secure role at J.P. Morgan.

That was the loop in my head. People would kill to be here. I had friends laid off from tech startups, months into unemployment, subletting their apartments, patching together freelance gigs just to cover groceries. And here I was, with a steady salary and benefits, fantasizing about escape. The guilt made me feel ungrateful. Like I should be waking up every morning thanking Jamie Dimon for the privilege.

The source of misery (so I thought)

My manager was the kind of person who could turn a throwaway comment into a cross-examination. If I submitted a model, she’d return it with dozens of redlines, each one delivered as if I’d committed malpractice. I learned to over-apologize in emails, to soften my language until I barely sounded like myself.

I became obsessed with the idea that she was the root of all my misery. If she left, maybe everything would change. Someone kinder might take her place. Maybe then the weight in my chest would lift.

And then, one morning in October, my prayers were answered. She pinged me on Teams: “Do you have a quick minute to chat?”

My stomach dropped. Obviously, I assumed I’d fucked something up, but I answered immediately, "Sure!"

We hopped on 5 minutes later and she kicked off with a rehearsed speech about how a new opportunity had landed in her lap and how perfectly it aligned with what she was looking for in her next step. She kept her tone professional, almost upbeat. I sat there, nodding, and quietly wondered if she was just as miserable as I was. Maybe she’d been applying elsewhere for months, dreaming of her own escape.

She didn’t mention what would happen with her role and I didn’t press. She had given a four week notice (which is standard for her level in this industry) so I hadn't even begun to think about who would backfill it. Until that same afternoon, her boss, Michael, dropped a “quick sync” on my calendar.

Yikes.

We kicked off with small talk about the weather and his kids, and then he got to it: “So, I wanted to meet today to let you know that we’d like to promote you to Sarah’s role.”

I froze. My throat went dry. He smiled as if he were giving me a gift, and I forced a smile back while my stomach sank through the floor.

Why wasn’t I ecstatic? My boss — the person I’d spent literal years silently wishing would leave — was finally leaving, and I was being handed a role I’d worked so hard for. Plus a phenomenal salary.

Yet all I could think was: I don’t want this.

The week it sunk in

That first week was a blur. Sarah was still technically there, looping me into her meetings and passing me the pieces she’d normally run. On paper, it looked like a transition. In reality, it felt like standing in a doorway I didn’t want to walk through.

I updated my LinkedIn. I called my parents. I let myself bask in the glow of validation. I tried to believe this was proof I wasn’t a fraud — that the late nights and stomach knots had finally added up to something.

But almost immediately, the truth surfaced: it wasn’t just Sarah. It was all of it.

The brittle smiles of colleagues who cut each other down mid-sentence.
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The endless decks that bled the life out of weekends.
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The hollow congratulations for a role I soon realized I didn’t even want.

Every morning, I woke up with the same pit in my stomach. The only difference now was that I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. This was the “better” I’d been waiting for. The title. The money. The recognition. And I hated it.

The decision I still question

The morning I resigned, I sat at my desk for two hours with the Teams chat window open, cursor blinking in an empty message box. All I had to type was: Can we talk today?

I couldn't bring myself to do it. My palms were damp. I kept minimizing the chat, pulling it back up, minimizing again. You’d think I was about to confess a crime.

Finally, I hit send. Michael replied instantly: Sure. 2:30?

At 2:28, I ducked into a room that was basically a storage closet — every conference room was booked, and the open floor plan didn’t exactly feel like the right audience for my “I quit” speech.

My heart racing like I’d swallowed a metronome.

I adjusted the camera, took a deep breath, and hit “Join.”

His face appeared on screen, calm and expectant. “So,” he said, smiling thinly. “How’s the first week going?”

I don’t remember my exact words. Something wooden like: “I wanted to let you know that I don’t think this role is the right fit for me.”

He blinked. Then the smile faltered. “I’m sorry… are you’re resigning? Already?”

I nodded.

His expression flickered between disbelief and irritation. “Hannah, you’ve just stepped into the role. What’s going on?”

I wanted to tell him everything: that I’d spent years blaming Sarah in my head when it wasn’t her at all, it was the whole machine; that most nights I fell asleep already dreading the next morning; that “more responsibility” didn’t feel like growth, it felt like a fifty-pound weight on my chest.

But all I managed to say was, “I realized it’s just not sustainable for me. I’m so sorry.”

His expression stayed neutral. “Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. Is it something we can talk about? Or is your mind pretty much made up?”

In this moment, I honestly wanted to cry. I felt like such a failure. But my voice stayed calm. “I appreciate that, but my mind is made up.”

“Alright, I understand,” he said. “I’ll reach out to HR to talk through next steps. Hang tight — I’ll get that set up.”

The call ended. I sat alone in that little room staring at the carpet for a long time.

I didn’t feel the relief I was hoping for. I felt heavy, embarrassed, and unsure if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my career.

What they don’t tell you after you quit

I wish I could close this by saying leaving was the best decision I ever made, but that would be a lie. The truth is, it’s been about two years since I left, and I still have moments where I wonder if I made a mistake.

Did my anxiety get the best of me? Was I being soft?

I don’t dwell on these questions as much as I used to, but they creep in from time to time.

A few weeks after I left, I found another job at a smaller firm. I’m still there now. The pay is less, the title is smaller, and no one cares where it ranks on LinkedIn. But I don’t wake up sick about work anymore. And for now, that’s enough.