My Sabbatical Story: Why I Started Solaris

At some point, I stopped asking myself the most important question.

Not: How is my project tracker looking? or Did I hit my KPIs?

But: How am I?

As an actual human being with a body that occasionally needed things like food, breathing room, and a reason to get out of bed that had nothing to do with a deliverable.

For more than a decade in tech, I lived by an unspoken code. My grandad used to say, if you are on time, you are late. 

He meant it as a lesson in preparation and respect. 

Somewhere along the way, I merged that wisdom with Silicon Valley's greatest export: if you are not available around the clock, someone else will be. 

So I took calls at 2 AM because someone in another time zone needed an answer right now. 

Constant motion felt like the only proof that I mattered. I thought a weekend away or an extra hour of sleep would fix the bone-deep exhaustion. 

Surprise, surprise. It never did.

The Plot Twist

This is a tale as old as time. Or at least as old as corporate restructuring.

My role was “eliminated”. You know, the one I literally lived for. The only thing that got me out of bed.

Then, one surreal Thursday morning, I faced a choice I had never really faced before.

I could start hunting for the next position immediately, the way I always had. Or I could do something I had literally never done in my adult life.

Actually stop.

It was terrifying. What kind of ambitious person just stops? But in the quiet that followed, I finally began to see just how depleted I had become.

What That Burnout Looked Like for Me

Burnout isn’t always dramatic. At least mine certainly didn’t arrive with a flashing warning sign telling me it was time to slow down. Like a lot of life, it happened gradually––and while I kept insisting I was fine.

My brain got foggy and my body started staging a rebellion. I felt increasingly disconnected from myself. And because I was still functioning, I kept going.

Then my bloodwork came back.

Iron at 19. Ferritin at 6. Vitamin D at 12.

My doctor looked at the results and told me what chronic stress could do to a body over time, and suddenly, the way I had been feeling made a lot more sense.

Life had started to feel like moving through quicksand with no solid ground in sight. And the hardest part was that I knew something wasn’t right. I could feel it. But knowing something needed to change and having the freedom to change it were two different things. I still had bills to pay, responsibilities to manage, and a life that required me to keep going.

Trial and Error… Heavy on the Error

I would love to say I responded by designing the perfect sabbatical.

I did not.

I had no real plan at all. In fact, I overplanned some parts while completely winging others.

I packed up my bags and traveled to Scottsdale, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Sedona, Maui, and Joshua Tree. Places that practically forced me to slow down. 

But the real work often happened in much less picturesque moments.

Therapy sessions where I ugly cried. Long, silent walks where I sat with my own mind without corporate noise filling the silence.

And the gradual, uncomfortable process of untangling who I was from what I produced.

But oh gosh, nobody tells you about the guilt.

Even lying on a beautiful beach, doing exactly what my depleted body seemed to need, a voice kept whispering: Is this just laziness? What about your résumé gap? Shouldn’t you be doing something productive right now?

That voice had gotten much deeper into my psyche than I knew, or cared to admit.

Rest became less about simply doing nothing and more about questioning a deeply embedded belief that my worth as a human being was determined by my output as a worker.

Those are not the same thing.

I know that now. But it took me most of a year to really feel it.

What I Learned, Place by Place

Scottsdale taught me to stop. Sometimes falling apart is what finally makes rest non-negotiable. Real rest wasn’t a pretty spa day. For me, it looked more like a full system shutdown.

Nicaragua reminded me to breathe. It also showed me how automatically I made myself smaller to keep other people comfortable. Old habits die hard. They even find you in the jungle.

Costa Rica reminded me that plans are just that. Plans. I got sick on my birthday and somehow laughed harder than I had in months at something I will not fully explain here. My body knew what it needed better than my itinerary did.

Sedona helped me trust myself again. I started making small decisions based on what felt right rather than what looked right.

Maui gave me permission to want things again. Not because they were productive or impressive but simply because they brought me joy.

Joshua Tree brought me back to the question of what came next. For the first time, I had clarity about what I wanted to build when I returned home.

Why Solaris Exists

When I finally felt ready to return, I knew I wanted to approach my time differently. I also kept thinking about everything I had learned the hard way.

Would things have turned out differently if I had thought more carefully about what I needed before I left? What if I had understood the guilt that can come with slowing down before I actually did it? What if I had planned for rest with the same care I once reserved for work?

And what if there were a way to prepare for meaningful time away without planning every moment of it?

Those questions eventually became the basis of Solaris Global Pathways.

With Solaris, I’m not trying to recreate my sabbatical. I want to help you create enough space to consider what you need—and thoughtfully prepare for the practical realities that make that space possible.

Stepping away shouldn’t require a crisis.

You shouldn’t have to completely fall apart before giving yourself permission to create space for yourself.

Sometimes, you simply need enough space to hear yourself again.

That’s why I started Solaris.