How do I know when to quit?

Two days before I folded the digital business I'd spent two years slogging my guts out to build, I hosted an event on women and work.

- CHARLOTTE PHILBY

A sparkling panel spoke passionately about jobs, start-ups and the highs and lows of building a meaningful career at a time when security is scarce and salaries are stagnant.

The event was part of a series we'd announced in the national press, big brands were lining up to collaborate and sponsorship offers were flooding in. By most external measures, business was booming.

So when I announced the closure of my online magazine, Motherland, via social media that Monday, the reaction was one of horrified bemusement. Was I OK? Was this a joke? Was I really quitting? What had gone wrong? The truth was, I had never felt so relieved. Quitting felt good.

As with all stories, there's a long version and a short one.

The short version is this: after a near-miss with a potential investor who attempted to drastically change the terms of our partnership at the eleventh hour, I was forced to let go of staff I had recently appointed on the basis of that investment. Even now, it makes me feel physically sick.

But with distance, it also feels like a narrow escape.

Because while there's sadness and a sharp loss of face in admitting defeat, the truth is my life wasn't sustainable.

In trying to forge a career while keeping a roof over my family's head, I'd landed on a treadmill of long days and sleepless nights. Quitting didn't feel like an option and that was making me miserable.

Two years after leaving a full-time corporate job to set up on my own, believing I was taking control of my life, I had to walk away. After all, 90 per cent of start-ups "fail", according to Forbes magazine. The reality of running a business was a real shocker.