There are a myriad of reasons women leave or pause their careers. From love to children, marriage, relocation, a partner’s request, or circumstances that feel entirely out of their control, the paths that lead women away from their professional lives are as varied as they are complex.
Sometimes, it is entirely their decision. Other times, it’s one shaped by pressure, expectation, or systems that offer no real alternatives.
We spoke to six women about their experiences leaving their careers for love, whether for a partner, for children, or for the family they were building. Here are their stories.
1. “Being a mum is my greatest calling in life. Motherhood before law.”— Starr*, 40s, Abuja
For ten years, I was a litigator. Law was everything I knew and did. I didn’t think there was any life out there for me except in litigation. It was my whole identity. I used to judge women who left their professions because of marriage or motherhood, until it happened to me.
Crazy enough, leaving was my idea. My husband didn’t even want me to quit. But at that time, I’d outgrown my workplace. I was planning our wedding, and my fiancé lived two states away. I was constantly travelling there to spend time with him and build a relationship. We’d been friends for years but had never dated. We loved each other enough that when he asked me to marry him, I said yes without that dating stage. So, I told myself I was using that period to really get to know us as a couple.
Finding a new firm wasn’t going well. The legal industry where he lived didn’t align with my ambitions. Still, I decided to move, for us. That was the beginning of everything changing.
I hadn’t been broke since 2011, but suddenly, I tasted poverty. True-true poverty. I’d always been independent, never relying on a man for anything, especially money. So it was hard to ask my husband for help. When we were friends, he used to tease me about being “too strong-willed.” I never collected gifts, even when he offered to buy me a car. So when we got married, he assumed I was still that woman: financially stable and handling things. He didn’t realise I was completely broke because I never told him. I was too proud. I thought asking for help would make me look weak.
Emotionally, I felt lost. I’d always struggled with imposter syndrome, and quitting the only career I’d ever known felt like proof that I wasn’t as capable as people thought. Everyone believed I was this brilliant lawyer, but inside, I doubted myself.
Then came the loneliness. I used to be a co-breadwinner in my parents’ home, but once I stopped earning, people treated me differently. I became invisible: left out of family decisions and ignored during discussions. It was a painful realisation: your value can shrink quickly when your income disappears.
Every day reminded me of what I’d given up: my low account balance, my inability to buy what I wanted, and the silence of not contributing. I felt useless.
When I got pregnant, things got even harder. I had complications — pelvic girdle pain, preeclampsia — and I was furious that my husband didn’t notice how much I was struggling. He thought I was fine and would ask for help if I wasn’t. But I was too proud to admit I needed it. He gave me money sometimes, but not like a provider, more like someone “adding to” what I already had. Except I had nothing. I’d spent all my savings.
Still, being home gave me something priceless: time with my children. No nannies, no crèche, just us. Those moments built a deep bond I wouldn’t trade for anything. I do not regret it, but I would not do it again.
Now I’m slowly rebuilding. I’ve opened my own law firm and take on cases that fit around my mum duties. Being a mother is my greatest calling, yes, but I’ve learned I can be both: a mother and a lawyer. I thought motherhood broke my brain, but it didn’t. It gave me new wisdom and strength. Life is finally getting better.
As for my marriage, we’re still together, but not the same. There’s love, but less romance, more partnership. We don’t argue like before, but that’s mostly because I’ve learned to pick my peace. I no longer expect him to understand everything I went through; I just focus on building the life I want. We coexist with more honesty, and maybe that’s enough for now.
2. “I went from being a woman who had her own money, to someone who had to wait for her husband to give her money.” — May*, 30s, Lagos
My career as an HR manager was a lovely one. I was doing well, genuinely thriving in my role. Then I had kids, and let me tell you, having kids and working is not a joke. It’s the kind of thing people make look easy from the outside, but when you’re in it? It’s overwhelming. So I made the decision to leave.
I thought my husband and I had discussed it properly. We both agreed that someone needed to be home with the children, and since his career was more established, it made sense for me to step back. At least, that’s what we told ourselves. He said he understood, even supported it, but I think a part of me always felt like he didn’t fully get what that decision would mean for me. Still, I convinced myself it was temporary, that I’d find my way back eventually.
What I didn’t expect was how everyone would see me.
My friends were the first to start. “You’re leaving? But you were doing so well,” they’d say, with that tone that suggested I was making a terrible mistake. Then came the assumptions: “Well, you must have money saved up.” “Your husband must be making serious money for you to just stop working like that.” At family gatherings, my cousins would whisper loud enough for me to hear, “She’s lucky sha, some of us can’t afford to just sit at home.” One of them even said to my face, “This your husband must be taking care of you well well o. Me, I can’t depend on any man like that.”
Even strangers had opinions. When I’d mention I wasn’t working, I’d get these looks, like I was some rich housewife who just decided work was beneath her. People looked at me like I wasn’t serious about my life. There was this assumption everywhere I turned: they actually thought I made that decision because I had lots of money. Like I was some wealthy woman who could afford to just walk away from her salary.
But that wasn’t my reality at all.
I didn’t really gain anything from leaving, if I’m being honest. Well, I gained kids, that’s a plus, a definite plus. But I actually felt really bad about the decision afterwards because it worried me financially. Not having that salary coming in anymore? It was really sad. That steady income I’d relied on was just… gone.
And depending on my husband for everything? It changed me. I wasn’t feeling like myself anymore. Before, if I wanted something, I’d just buy it. Now, I had to ask. “Can I get this? Do we have money for that?” Even small things felt like a negotiation. My husband never made me feel bad about it; he provided, he took care of us. But inside, I felt like I’d lost a part of who I was. I went from being a woman who contributed, who had her own money, her own independence, to someone who had to wait for her husband to give her money. That feeling of not being able to just handle things myself? It ate at me every single day.
Looking back now, I don’t regret my choice. My children needed me, and I was there for them. But would I do it again? No. I wouldn’t.
Right now, I’m just trying to learn skills — sewing, nothing serious. The thing is, I haven’t been able to get a job since then. I’ve applied, I’ve tried, but the gap in my CV raises questions, and the market isn’t what it used to be. So I’m just trying to survive, and it isn’t funny at all. Not funny at all.
You’ll Also Enjoy: “You’re the Mother Now”: The Rage of Nigeria’s First Daughters
3. “Love shouldn’t feel like a trap. Staying would have meant them learning the wrong lessons about what love looks like” — CoCo*, 40s, Canada
I was an unpaid, unslept, overworked and looked-over physician. That’s what the system does to you: it grinds you down until you’re running on empty, working yourself to the bone while feeling invisible.
But what made me leave wasn’t just the exhaustion or the thankless grind of it all. It was my pikin. My children. I needed to get them a better life, and I loved them too much to keep them trapped in a love gone sour.
The relationship I was in had turned sour. Some arguments would stretch late into the night, voices raised while the children ran to hide in their rooms. Then there was the silence, much worse than the shouting, days where we’d move around each other like strangers, barely speaking, if at all. My children started walking on eggshells in their own home, reading our faces or moods before they’d ask for anything. They were always so tense.
I couldn’t let them grow up breathing in that toxicity. Love shouldn’t feel like a trap, but that’s exactly what it had become. Staying would have meant watching them learn the wrong lessons about what love looks like, what they should accept, what they should tolerate. I couldn’t do that to them.
But leaving meant leaving everything. The relationship was tied to where I was—the hospital, the city, the life I’d built. To give my children that better life, to remove them from that toxic environment, I had to uproot completely. That meant walking away from my medical career, at least in the form I knew it. You can’t just transfer a medical practice across borders easily. The certifications, the licensing, starting over in a new place, it’s not simple. And with everything falling apart at home, I didn’t have the energy to fight that battle while fighting to keep my children’s spirits intact.
So I chose them. I chose us.
Leaving changed everything. Emotionally? I felt enhanced, like I could finally breathe again. Financially? I was impoverished, no question about it. The physician’s salary, even if it felt like I was working for pennies given the hours, was gone. Thankfully, I had some savings to keep us afloat for some time. But personally? There was growth. Real growth. The kind that only comes when you choose yourself and your children over comfort and familiarity.
There wasn’t one big moment where I realised what I’d given up or gained. It was a lot of micro-moments. Small realisations that built up over time. Like the first morning, I woke up without that knot in my stomach, without dreading what mood would greet me or what fight was waiting. Like the afternoon my daughter laughed, really laughed, freely and loudly, without that quick glance over her shoulder to see if it was okay, if it was safe. Like the evening I sat with my son helping with homework and realised I could actually think clearly about what I wanted for us, not just what I was expected to want or tolerate.
When I left my job and that relationship, something in me shifted completely. I had to pivot to something else entirely, find new ways to make money, new ways to use my skills. And in that pivoting, I morphed into a no-nonsense-taking monster. I don’t tolerate what I used to tolerate. I don’t accept what I used to accept. I learned to say no, to set boundaries, to protect my peace and my children’s peace like my life depended on it, because honestly, it did.
I do not regret my choice. I would do it again, in a heartbeat.
Now? I’m thriving. I’m hopeful. I’m doing lots of crazy things: consulting work that lets me set my own hours, exploring health advocacy in ways I never could when I was drowning in the hospital system, and even dabbling in writing about healthcare reform. Things I never thought I’d have the courage to try. There are endless possibilities ahead of me, and for the first time in a long time, I can actually see them. More importantly, my children can see possibilities too. They’re not trapped anymore. Neither am I.
4. “After the second miscarriage, he said I’d have to resign the next time I took in.” — Abra*, 30s, Ibadan
I was working with a popular microfinance bank as the Customer Support Team Lead. This was a career I had built for over ten years after graduation. The job was daunting, absolutely exhausting at times, but as someone dealing with ADHD, I loved the fact that I wasn’t stuck to a routine. I was jumping from one place to another, dealing with crazy customers and even crazier colleagues. I loved the job. I really did.
Then came the pressure to leave.
Long story, but here it is: My partner was actually working at the time, but my take-home was about four times his, so I was financing the house. He was driving my car, spending my money, hanging out with my circle of friends, and generally just living his best life on my dime.
He started dropping hints that he wanted me to get pregnant, saying work was really stressful. I ignored the subtle hints about resigning, just brushed them off. Then came the first miscarriage. Then the second. After the second one, he came out straight and said that I’d have to resign from this job the next time I took in. He claimed the stress was too high and that’s what was making the babies not stay.
I ignored him. He gave me the silent treatment. Then his parents started hinting at my resigning so that I could have time to “build my home.” Around this time, I was noticing some red flags that were making me reconsider the relationship entirely.
Well, I took in again. This third time, he outrightly told me to resign. I refused. I said I’d take things slowly — go on sabbatical, which is six months, then take three months unpaid leave, add three months maternity leave. That would be a full year. The baby would have been born, and I’d look for how to juggle work and a kid.
He blew up. He said he couldn’t allow me to work, that he was ready to take care of me and my kid. Don’t forget, he has a baby mama who isn’t working and a ten-year-old kid already. I laughed and looked at him dead in the eye and said nothing was making me resign my job. His salary wasn’t enough to take care of his baby mama, his son, and himself, and he wanted to add two more mouths?
He got mad and gave me the silent treatment for weeks. He stopped coming home, stopped picking up my calls. I applied for the six-month sabbatical, which was approved, and I started my journey of staying at home.
Unfortunately, I lost the baby at eighteen weeks. I eventually found out that I have a short cervix. It wasn’t the stress of the job that made me lose my babies; it was my health…my body. A medical condition, not my career.
Prior to losing the baby, he lost his job at about fifteen weeks into the pregnancy. Think about that. I wondered if I had resigned like he wanted, we would have been drinking garri. Both of us jobless, broke, with nothing coming in.
Everyone said I was stubborn. They said I had the qualifications, I could easily get another job, so why was I being so difficult? But I don’t think I could sit still without doing something. I would have been depressed. Maybe we would have broken up, actually, we definitely would have. My father supported me 100% and said if I wanted to work till the day I put to bed, then he supported me. That meant everything.
Personally, I am glad I stood my ground. If not, the story would have been completely different. I hate to depend on someone for my source of livelihood. People kept saying I had savings that could cover me for three to four years, even if I didn’t work, so what was the problem? But I’m building a safety nest because I plan to retire at forty-five. Dipping into my savings would have pushed that plan back by another five to eight years. I am super glad I listened to my instinct.
His mother still subtly shades me, saying I’m not wife material because I’m too career-driven. I don’t care.
When he lost his job and I lost the baby, I was depressed for weeks. I resumed work and buried myself in it to forget the pain. If I had resigned, I wouldn’t have been able to forget it. I wouldn’t have had that outlet. We would have broken up, or I would have resented him forever.
I do not regret my choice. And I would do it again, absolutely.
Where am I now? I actually got a better job that pays almost fifteen times what I was earning. Fifteen times. My old company wanted to increase my pay, but they couldn’t match the new offer. If I had left when he demanded, I would have seen premium shege. The suffering would have been legendary.
Similar Reads
What She Said: I Was the Other Woman for Two Years
I Tried To Put Motherhood On Hold And Failed
The Exhaustion of Being Her Household’s Only Earner
5. “I got pregnant. My body was changing, I was exhausted, and the pressure didn’t let up. I lost the job in my third trimester.”— Favour*, 28, PH
I didn’t want to get married at first. I had just graduated from university, maybe a year or two out, and I had plans. But he pursued me relentlessly. I showed him shege, honestly. I was testing him, seeing if he was serious. Once, he threw a whole party for my birthday, and I didn’t even attend. I wanted to see if he’d give up. He didn’t.
Eventually, I said yes. We got married, and I took in soon after. I was working at a consulting firm at the time, and the job was demanding; I had to bring in big investors, close major deals. Then I got pregnant, and the job got even harder. My body was changing, I was exhausted, and the pressure didn’t let up. I lost the job in my third trimester. Just like that, I was out.
I didn’t really have a choice in how things unfolded. I was pregnant. I had to have the baby. After my first son was born, I started looking for jobs again, trying to get back out there. But then I went to the hospital to get birth control. I wanted to wait, to space things out, maybe four years before having another child. Give myself time to rebuild my career, get stable again.
The hospital denied me. They said I hadn’t had a second child yet, so they couldn’t give me birth control. And did my Oga (husband) know? They asked me that, like I needed his permission to make decisions about my own body. I was stunned, angry, but what could I do?
Two years later, I got pregnant again. I had to put the job search on hold. Again.
My husband works in admin for an offshore company; it’s like a government job, so the pay isn’t always on time. We have a home, a two-bedroom flat that he maintains. We have food to eat. But we’re struggling. Really struggling. I’ve been doing everything to find work, sending out applications, and going to interviews. I went for one just this week, and I’m hoping to hear back. I’m finally on birth control now, and I made sure of it. Both my kids are over two, we have a live-in nanny, so this is the best time for me to go back to work.
But the years in between? They were hard. I struggled with postpartum depression after my second son. The weight of what my life had become pressed down on me every day. This was never my plan. I didn’t plan to have two children so close together. I didn’t plan to be out of work this long. I didn’t plan to feel so dependent, so stuck.
I don’t regret my children, never. And I do not regret my relationship. He loves me, and I see his effort. But I regret that I wasn’t given the choice to wait, to plan, to build my life the way I wanted before expanding my family. That choice was taken from me, and I’ve been trying to claw my way back ever since.
6. “I already see myself as a single mother. We don’t have a relationship except for our children, and even then, he is useless.”— Blessing*, 40, Warri
I was a student in my final year when everything changed. I had internships in the beauty and fashion industry, and I was preparing to graduate and start building my startup company. I had plans to travel, to research, to collect data that would help me grow my business. I was going to look for collaborations with other countries, with the Nigerian fashion industry. I could see my future so clearly, and it was bright.
Then I got pregnant for the man I loved.
I don’t know how to feel about the decision to leave school because, honestly, it feels like a decision that was made for me. I got pregnant in my final year and had to drop out to take care of myself and my baby. In my family, we do not “throw children away.” I had to keep my child. It’s a decision I regret from the beginning, not my child, never my child, but the circumstances, the timing, the way everything fell apart. Things would have turned out so bright for me. Right now, it’s down and bad.
What I didn’t know then, what made everything even more complicated, was that he already had a wife and children. This man, whom I considered my love, was a liar. So we never had a family unit of our own. My family and I had to raise my child together. Years later, when we met up again, I decided to have another child. I was getting older, so I overlooked the past and made that decision myself. I wanted my first child to have a sibling.
But I’ve not been able to do anything fully since then. As a mother, I’ve had to work—selling, trading, doing whatever I could to take care of myself and the children—because he wasn’t the best help. He wasn’t a present father. The toll on me has been heavy. I’ve lost myself in the process. Now I’m just living as a mother while struggling to survive.
My family was always there to support me and my children, so I’ve always had a support system. But on several occasions, I’d feel this weight on my heart, the weight of what would have been. I’d think about where I’d be if I had graduated, if I had launched that business, if I had travelled and built those collaborations. I’d think about the version of myself I was supposed to become.
To be honest, I already see myself as a single mother. We don’t have a relationship except for our children, and even then, he is useless.
I regret my choice, and I would never do it again. Never.
Where am I now? I’m trying to build myself one brick at a time. Taking care of myself, putting my kids through school, and just trying to live positively. It’s slow, and some days it feels impossible, but I’m still here. I’m still trying.
Single? Married? Divorced? Dating? In a situationship? We’re surveying Nigerians about love, relationships, marriage, and everything in between and we want to hear from YOU.
You only need to give us a few minutes of your time and participate in this quick survey. It’s 100% anonymous too!
Click here to see what people are saying about this piece on Instagram.
