Unshackled in Wonderland: Cynthia’s Escape from the 9-to-5 Maze

You Know What? I Quit.

The rain hit the office windows with the rhythm of exhaustion. Not a storm, not a cleansing downpour—just a relentless drizzle that clung to your mood like damp wool. Cynthia sat at her desk, staring blankly at her screen. The glow of the monitor highlighted the hollows under her eyes, casting soft shadows that deepened with every blink.

Her inbox was full. Her to-do list had grown sentient and hostile. The break room smelled like stale coffee and crushed ambition.

But today felt different. Something in her had been quietly snapping for weeks, fraying like a cheap thread under the weight of forced cheerfulness, impossible deadlines, and the endless expectation to be grateful. Grateful for the job. Grateful for the paycheck. Grateful for being “valued,” even though no one listened when she spoke.

A Slack ping pulled her attention back to the screen. Another “quick favor.” Another urgent-not-urgent task lobbed in her direction from someone who wouldn’t even say thank you. She stared at it.

Then she did something unexpected.

She smiled.

Not the polite one she wore like a uniform. This smile had teeth. This smile had truth. She stood up, reached for her coat, and whispered to no one in particular—

“You know what? I quit.”

In a world not so far from the one we pretend is real, somewhere between a nervous breakdown and a breakthrough, the office blurred. Cynthia blinked—and the grey cubicles melted into hedges of deep purple roses. The overhead fluorescents dimmed into a moody lavender twilight. Her inbox disintegrated into a cloud of fluttering parchment, each email turning into a gossiping playing card that flitted off into the sky.

And just like that… she was in Wonderland.

But not the whimsical, sanitized version sold on mugs and tote bags.

No, this was Courtney’s Wonderland. Sharp around the edges. Too loud and too quiet all at once. Beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—when they knock out the power and make you remember you're alive.

Cynthia looked down at her office clothes. They had transformed into something strange and lovely—a tailored waistcoat stitched with moonlight, boots laced with rebellion, and a skirt that looked like it had a secret or two.

“Oh,” she said, the weight of everything lifting just slightly from her chest. “Finally.”

She wandered into the forest of Overscheduled Ogres. Towering beings, each wearing oversized watches and muttering about "synergy" and "action items." One blocked her path, clipboard in hand.

“Where’s your calendar? You can’t be here without a calendar.”

“I threw it in the river,” Cynthia said sweetly, “right after I lit my planner on fire.”

The Ogre blinked, stunned. No one had ever talked back to him. They usually just apologized for being late.

She sidestepped him easily, skipping into the trees where the air smelled like lavender and loose boundaries.

Next, she came upon the Tea Party of Expectations. Everyone was screaming.

A woman named Should wore a sash and kept pouring tea into cups already full.

“You should be more productive!” she shrieked.

“You should be quieter!”

“You should be grateful for what you have!”

Each “should” landed like a stone on Cynthia’s shoulders until she snapped, not in anger, but in clarity.

“Enough.”

With a flick of her wrist, she tipped over the table. Tea spilled. Gasps echoed. Should gaped, wide-eyed.

Cynthia met her gaze and said, “I’m not your puppet. I’m not your project. I quit pretending you get to decide who I’m supposed to be.”

Should vanished in a puff of passive-aggression.

Cynthia kept walking.

In the garden of Gaslighted Growth, she passed a bush that whispered, “Was it really that bad?”

Another chimed in, “Maybe you misunderstood. Maybe it’s your trauma talking.”

The flowers had familiar voices. They sounded like old bosses. Old friends. Her ex. Her mother.

Cynthia turned slowly and said, “Even if it wasn’t ‘that bad’—it wasn’t good. I’m allowed to leave something that hurts.”

The garden wilted with a hiss, its vines recoiling like they'd touched something real.

She found a mirror.

In it, she saw herself—but not the self she performed for others. Not the version of her who smiled at microaggressions or overexplained to avoid being seen as “difficult.” This reflection was raw. Bald from alopecia, glowing from survival, eyes wild with something that looked dangerously like joy.

“You again,” she whispered.

Her reflection smiled. “Welcome back.”

As she walked deeper into Wonderland, she met creatures who were just like her.

A Rabbit who was always late—not because she was careless, but because her brain didn’t work on linear time. She had ADHD and a clock that ticked to the beat of her heartbeat, not anyone else’s.

A Mad Hatter who couldn’t regulate his emotions—one minute laughing, the next sobbing into his cravat. He apologized too much, and then got angry that he was apologizing again.

“Do people call you too much?” Cynthia asked gently.

“All the time,” he sniffled. “But I’ve realized I am too much—for people who want me to be less.”

She sat beside him, and together they watched the stars explode into different colors. Some were messy. Some were quiet. All of them were real.

Eventually, she reached the center of Wonderland.

There, on a crooked throne, sat the Queen of Hearts.

But she didn’t scream. She didn’t order beheadings. Not anymore.

She looked tired.

Cynthia approached her cautiously. The Queen looked up—and they locked eyes.

“I used to be you,” the Queen said softly. “Before I turned rage into armor.”

“I get it,” Cynthia replied. “It’s hard being dismissed. It's harder being too loud or too angry when no one sees why.”

“I forgot how to feel anything but furious,” the Queen admitted.

Cynthia took her hand. “You don’t have to stay in fight mode forever.”

The Queen burst into tears.

And something cracked open in Cynthia’s chest, too.

She found a field where ex-employees danced barefoot, sipping tea that tasted like self-respect. They wore mismatched clothes and carried signs that read:

“I left the job before it left me in pieces.”

“I quit apologizing for needing rest.”

“Burnout is not a badge.”

Cynthia joined them.

And then, as the sky turned to velvet, she sat down in the grass, pulled out her phone, and opened a blank note.

She typed:

I quit being who you needed me to be to stay comfortable. I quit shrinking myself. I quit staying silent just to keep the peace. I quit carrying the weight of other people’s expectations while ignoring my own needs. I quit the job, the version of me built on guilt and performance, and the internalized fear that quitting means failing.

Quitting saved me.

The next morning, Cynthia woke up in her own bed. The rain had stopped.

She stretched. Smiled.

And instead of logging into her inbox, she brewed a strong cup of tea and opened her journal.

She started sketching the Mad Hatter’s tea set. She doodled the Rabbit’s clock. She drew the field of ex-workers with banners raised high.

She didn’t have a plan. Not yet. But she had herself.

And that was enough.

A week later, someone from her old job texted: “We’re swamped without you. Any chance you’d want to freelance?”

Cynthia thought about the ogres. The shrieking tea party. The garden of gaslighting.

Then she thought about the Rabbit. The Hatter. The Queen of Hearts.

Her smile returned—slow and knowing.

“You know what?” she texted back. “I quit. Still.”

Then she turned her phone off and went outside. The world was louder than she remembered. Brighter. Full of color.

She walked into it anyway, boots hitting pavement with certainty.

Because in Wonderland—and in the world that tries to pretend magic doesn’t exist—sometimes quitting is the most radical form of self-love.

Sometimes, “I quit” means “I begin again.”

And Cynthia?

She was just getting started.

THE END.