Asher on Aspen: The last one

Full disclosure: This column isn’t about a free meal, a five-star hotel, or any of those polished pieces pretending everything is perfect. This one’s real. Raw. No spin, no sparkle, no bullshit. Just me — stripped down, telling the truth I’ve been too afraid to say until now.

I got fired from my job on April 30. Fired. From my big fancy title: Director of Marketing and Public Relations. The kind of title that makes people nod in approval at parties, like you’ve got your shit together. And for a while, I really believed I did.

It was a Wednesday. Cold. I walked into the back conference room in my usual Western attire, wearing that half-forced smile we all put on when something inside us already knows change is coming. 

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“Your heart isn’t in it anymore,” they said. And goddammit, they were right.

I’d gotten too comfortable. I was making the most money I’d ever made in my life — and still I felt hollow. I was sleepwalking through a job that wasn’t mine anymore. I didn’t belong there, not really. And they knew that. 

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But still — the humiliation. The gut punch of losing something I’d built my entire adult identity around. I told people I left. Like it was my idea. Like I had a plan. I lied through my teeth, smiling while my stomach turned. I couldn’t admit I’d failed.

But here’s the truth: Getting fired was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It didn’t feel like it at first — it shook me to my core, forced me to rethink everything. But sometimes life doesn’t wait for you to make the hard choice — it makes it for you.

So, why share this? Because I’ve learned that most pain isn’t original. It’s universal. Everyone’s been knocked on their ass by life at some point — a firing, a breakup, a betrayal, a reckoning. And maybe hearing mine will make you feel a little less alone in yours.

Because for so long, my worth was tangled up in my work. Without it, who was I? For years, I’d been following a script — build the career, climb the ladder, impress the room. But there was always a voice in my gut, whispering you’re meant for something else.

Well, screw the script.

I’ve always wanted to act. Since I was a kid. The film industry fascinated me — the grit, the glamour, the illusion of it all. Growing up, we didn’t have much. No cable, one TV, and a collection of old movies my parents loved. My mom showed us “The Sound of Music.” My dad cued up “The African Queen.” During the holidays, it was “White Christmas” and “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

We’d gather in the living room for the Academy Awards like it was the Super Bowl. I’d pretend to give my acceptance speech from the couch, thanking the Academy and my imaginary agent.

My Uncle Mark kept it going once I moved to Aspen — he showed me “Fight Club,” “12 Angry Men,” “The Silence of the Lambs,” and even “Pulp Fiction.” He can quote Tarantino line for line — it’s honestly impressive.

But that dream of becoming an actress felt too embarrassing to say out loud, like a secret I didn’t deserve to have. And, I’ve always questioned whether it was too late for me. But here’s the thing: “Too late” is a myth. A bedtime story for people who are afraid to start over. 

Well, I’m 31, and I’m finally doing it. I’m moving to L.A. to become an actress. Go ahead — laugh. Plenty of people already have. But that restless voice in my chest won’t shut up anymore. It keeps saying, go now — because if you don’t, you’ll always wonder.

So, I did.

I found my apartment in Beverly Hills on Facebook Marketplace. FaceTimed my new roommates once, then packed my life into my Volkswagen Tiguan and drove 15 hours straight from Aspen. I sold half my belongings to strangers — my desk, my e-bike, my designer jackets, my beloved houseplants (each with a name and a personality). 

Hell, I even sold a Kemo Sabe hat or two. That hurt. 

But it was freeing — like burning down a house you’d outgrown. Every sale, every Venmo ping, peeled off another layer of fear.

I’m also leaving behind my best friend, Jett — my roommate, my favorite person. Three years of belly laughs, stupid voices, and running bits that somehow never got old. Things just clicked with him — effortless, natural, like we were wired from the same place. It’s only been a week, and my brain still thinks he’s in the other room. Leaving him feels like sawing off a limb. 

But I have to go. I can’t keep circling the same block, pretending it’s the whole world.

Aspen — my wild, beautiful, maddening little town. You’ve been my home for 10 years. You gave me everything — the highs, the hangovers, the miracles, the mistakes. The family dinners, the live music, the mountain mornings that felt like religion.

I’ll miss skiing down Ajax, feeling invincible one day and completely humbled the next. The way hiking Smuggler can feel like a spiritual reset button. Laughing at the bar at Campo, realizing I know half the room, and clinking an espresso martini. The intimacy and raw energy of every single Belly Up show. A freshly poured Guinness at the Woody Creek Tavern. And the hum of a town that never really grows up but never really grows old either.

And yeah, it’s terrifying. I might fall flat on my face in L.A. I might come crawling back, broke and heartbroken, begging for a couch to crash on. But at least I’ll know I tried.

So, if you’re reading this, here’s your sign: Quit the job you hate. Sell the shit you don’t need. Stop saying “yes” to people who drain you. Tell the truth — even when it’s ugly. Especially when it’s ugly. Go after the thing that scares you. It’s not too late. It’s never too late.

Reinvention isn’t failure — it’s evolution. Proof that you were brave enough to begin again. And what a beautiful thing, to refuse to settle for a life that doesn’t set your soul on fire.

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To my people:

Uncle Mark — you’re my Aspen anchor, my emergency contact, my best friend who happens to be blood. Thank you for the music, the heart-to-hearts at the Woody Creek Tavern, and always being there.

Charlie and David — my cousins, my brothers. Your Mom would be so proud.

Kori — you’re the glue.

Jett — thank you for every laugh, every song, every ridiculous dance in the kitchen. You changed the way I see the world.

My Aspen girls — Taylor, Shannon, Kali, Katie, Bailey, Casey, Natalie. You made my twenties magic. People slip in and out of your life so quietly — one blink and years are gone. But somehow, we’ve held on. Through heartbreaks, milestones, and moves, we’re still us.

Kemo Sabe crew — no hard feelings, only gratitude. You took me in, gave me a front-row seat to one of the most iconic brands in the country, and let me grow in ways I couldn’t have imagined. You recognized that it was time for me to move on before I did — and for that, I’m deeply grateful.

And finally, to you — the reader. Thank you for stopping me on the street. For reading my words. For caring. You’ve given me purpose. You made this column more than a byline — you made it a lifeline.

Six years of “Asher on Aspen.” Six years of stories, confessions, revelry, and truth. It’s been the most honest thing I’ve ever done.

This is me, signing off. Packing up. Driving west. Leaving Aspen behind — but not really. You never really leave this place. A piece of it goes with you, wherever you go.

Asher on Aspen — officially signing off.