It’s been almost a year since I left the world of real estate finance, and today the subject of whether I have any regrets came up not once, but twice.
First, one of my oldest friends called from Arizona to wish me a happy birthday, and we were talking about what I’m doing now. “A year ago,” I told him, “I was coming home in tears every night, not writing anything, and my dogs barely knew who I was. Now, I’m not making as much, but I’m really happy.”
He told me that he was really glad he’d chosen to leave is position at a major university and concentrate on spending time with his two-year-old son, and finally finish the dissertation he began in 1999. (I really wish he and his family lived closer. His wife is smart, funny, and snarky, and I’d love to get to know her better than I do.)
Then, in the car, Fuzzy asked if I’d heard about a certain major lender that is in serious financial trouble.
I looked at him and said, “You know, I really respect my Realtor and Mortgage Broker friends, but I think I left the industry at the right time.”
It’s strangely appropriate that these two conversations came up at the same time as my “almost anniversary” of leaving.