Blue Monday and the Cost of Feeling Safe

There is a specific kind of silence that exists in a Montreal winter at 6:00 AM. It’s heavy, cold, and—most importantly—pitch black. Coming from Mexico fifteen years ago, I still find myself waiting for the light to give me permission to start my day. In my hometown, the sun is a constant, reliable companion. Here, in the belly of February, that permission doesn't come until well after I’ve finished my first cup of coffee and started the first shift of my morning.

But today, the darkness feels different. Today is "Blue Monday"—not just because of the weather, but because I am standing on the edge of a cliff I spent eight months building. On Friday, I leave my corporate role. I am leaving the stability, the direct deposits, and the "safety" of a career that, for a long time, was the only thing that made sense in a world of slush and gray highways.

What I’m really grieving isn’t the job itself. It’s the certainty.

The quiet comfort of knowing exactly what would arrive in my bank account and when. The ability to plan without hesitation. The invisible structure that held my life together even on the days I felt exhausted or uninspired. Walking away from that doesn’t feel dramatic — it feels disorienting. Like removing a load-bearing wall and trusting the house will still stand.

The Altar of the Two Screens

If you walked into my office today, you would see the typical remnants of a finance professional. Two monitors, a silver stapler, and my calculator. These objects have been my altar for the last eight months.

I came into this role as a contractor, and when the opportunity to go permanent arrived, it was "The Dream." Good money. Great career growth. A title that matched my background in Finance. But as any analyst will tell you, a high Return on Investment (ROI) often comes with a high cost of maintenance.

I quickly realized I was in deep. I went from "I can't handle this" to "I’ve got this," but the middle ground was a ghost town. I was learning on the fly, fighting the imposter syndrome that whispers you haven't learned enough, all while balancing the reality of being a woman of a certain age in a corporate world that sometimes forgets we have lives outside the spreadsheet.

There were nights I shut down my laptop and sat in silence, replaying decisions in my head — Did I miss something? Did I catch everything? Was today good enough? The job didn’t end at 5:00 PM; it followed me into traffic, into dinner, into sleep. Mastery came, but it came at the price of constant vigilance. Competence, I learned, can still be exhausting when it demands all of you.

I’m packing that stapler on Friday. But I’m leaving the stress that came with it.

The "Takeout Tax" and the Economics of Sanity

Let’s talk about the numbers no one puts in the annual report: The Mom Tax.

This month, my husband has been travelling for work. I have been solo parenting in the middle of a Montreal winter while trying to close out my corporate files and attend my evening classes at Concordia. My "Finance Brain" looked at my bank statement this morning and winced: $200 on takeout.

I have a freezer full of home-cooked meals. I have the systems. I have the spreadsheets. But there were days this month where the thought of standing over a stove for 45 minutes felt like a bankruptcy of the soul.

This is the part of working life that rarely gets acknowledged: the hidden trade-offs. The mental math women do constantly. Where time, energy, and money are negotiated minute by minute. There is no spreadsheet cell for emotional bandwidth, yet it is often the scarcest resource of all.

When I’m driving home on Highway 40—a road that can turn a 40-minute commute into a two-hour test of human patience—I make a choice. I call for delivery while I’m stuck in the slush. By the time my daughter walks through the door from school, the food is there.

Is it a financial loss? On paper, yes. But in the "Economics of Sanity," it was a win. That $200 bought me 15 minutes to breathe. It gave me a night when I wasn't a "stressed employee" or a "tired cook," but just a mom sitting on the couch with her daughter, sharing a pizza and a moment of happiness while Dad was away.

Teleporting 15 Years Back

If I could teleport back to the version of me that arrived from Mexico 15 years ago, I would tell her to keep going. I would tell her that the "Winter Tax" is real, but so is the resilience she’s building.

I would tell her that stability will matter more than she expects — not because she lacks courage, but because she will one day be responsible for more than herself. That choosing safety isn’t a failure; it’s a strategy. And that there will come a moment when she will be allowed to loosen her grip without everything falling apart.

I’ve realized that I spent a decade and a half working so I could eventually afford the "Montana"—the cushion. I worked hard so I could have a year with my baby without losing my career. I worked hard so that today, as I prepare to leave my job, I am "in the green."

Because of that corporate role, my business basics are covered. My website is paid for. My tools are ready. Even if I make zero dollars on Monday morning, I am not in debt to my dream. I am starting from a place of strength.

This isn’t recklessness. It’s deferred courage. Courage earned slowly, through consistency, discipline, and years of showing up even when it was uncomfortable.

The Highway to Freedom

Highway 40 has been my greatest enemy and my most honest teacher. It represents the "loss" of two hours of life every day.

Two hours that never appear on a payslip. Two hours that quietly erode creativity, patience, and presence. Commutes are the invisible tax we normalize — until we imagine a life without them.

But starting next week, my "40" is different. If I want to work from the coffee shop in front of my house, I can. If I want to work in my pyjamas until noon, I can. The freedom to produce money while visiting my family in Mexico isn't just a "perk"—it’s the entire point.

I’ve already seen the first $100 hit my account from my own clients and my book sales. In the corporate world, $100 is a rounding error. In my world? It’s a revolution. It’s proof that I am capable of reinventing myself.

It’s not about the amount. It’s about ownership. About knowing that value can flow directly from my effort, my ideas, my voice — without needing permission.

A Message to the Mamas in the Dark

To the women who feel like their career has hit a plateau because they chose to be present for their kids: You aren't "stuck." You are just in a different season of growth.

A season where progress looks quieter. Where ambition gets rerouted instead of erased. Where the timeline stretches, but the roots go deeper.

I want my daughter to look at me and see a woman who wasn't afraid to close the laptop on a "perfect" career to build something that actually fits her life. I want her to know that being "Capable" doesn't mean doing it all—it means knowing when to pivot.

I want her to learn that success doesn’t have to be loud or linear to be real. That it’s okay to pause, reassess, and choose alignment over applause.

Blue Monday is almost over. The sun will eventually come up over Montreal. And when it does, I won't be driving the 40. I'll be home, building my own light.

Love,

Fabi.

Transparency Note: I believe in transparency in business and life. This post contains affiliate links for Alison, where I’m currently taking my courses, and Wealthsimple, where I manage the finances for my future business. Using these links supports my journey as I transition to full-time entrepreneurship. Link in bio for the full list of tools I use.

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