It was two years ago today that I stepped away from work as a full-time employee.
My thoughts and feelings about that on this auspicious day are…all over the damn place. A mess of bits that look like gratitude or grief, depending on the angle or time of day.
As I build a new worklife existence, a more fulfilling one, I force my gaze forward. I meditate, envision, chant, hum, jog, lift weights, talk to the Forces Beyond, do all I can to ward off the demons of Rumination. But today I give myself permission to pause and take some stock.
I’m like so many who have taken a job – or three or four – to pay the bills. My father’s passing shortly after my 15th birthday awakened an inner caretaker that has never taken a break. The driving force has always been to secure an escape for my mom and me from a tough neighborhood. To get us out and keep us out.
Passions? Fulfillment? Not entirely ignored, but relegated to the back seat and treated like a grumpy kid in need of a nap.
“Ma. MA. MA!”
“Shut up and have a snack! And don’t make me pull over!”
What has that kid wanted all these years? A few passions and ambitions have revealed themselves. The writer kid wants the next NYTimes bestseller. The psychology major and coach kid wants to help others heal and thrive. The dancer kid wants to be a rumbera worthy of my Cuban ancestors. But before all that, the caretaker, the one at the wheel, has needed safety and peace.
You see, for the first 36 years of my life, I lived in a first-floor apartment in Washington Heights, New York City. I daydreamed a lot. Spent worlds of time gazing out my bedroom window, wishing for a view of something other than discarded refuse, rats, and concrete. And so I made a silent pact with my Future Self to make it happen.
I worked as much and as hard as I could to make sure that the burden of our escape was not squarely on my Gladiator Mom’s shoulders. Desk work, phone work, paperwork. Unremarkable, unfulfilling work. I did my best at all of it. Over the months and years, I found that my curiosity and my humor were powerful forces against the despair. In between and after hours, I kept that kid in the back seat satisfied with big meals like the pursuit of university degrees, a book of short stories, a life coaching certification…and snacks like daily morning emails to my coworkers.
I stayed too long in many ugly situations and places, according to experts who opine about these things. The articles on healthy work environments are filled with “shoulds” I did not heed. I did put in my two-weeks-notice at one place that was particularly bad enough to leave without a plan. Just did the right thing by my boss, wrapped things up and walked. The next gig took seven months to land, though, so i I didn’t do it again.
The years passed. So very many of them. I was aware of the time, don’t get me wrong, but still the number gave me a shock when that voluntary exit offer arrived in my email inbox two years ago. It was extended to those of us with a combination of age and years of service that added up to 70.
I blinked. Hard.
SEVENTY? Could that be right?
It sure was right. My heart raced with disbelief, joy, hope, and terror. Also, I felt ancient. It took almost no thought to accept the offer. But it did take worlds of intestinal fortitude. “Fifty-five is not old,” I told myself, “and this is a Cosmic Shove Forward.” “
It was odd at first. The structure of my days became soft and gooey. I did coaching and writing work in fits and starts, and tried to stay focused on my future. I didn’t understand the lethargy that tugged at me. When I finally listened to it, though, it told me that 30-something years of office work life does some damage. My body, heart, and mind were not pleased with all that restless stagnation. I’d developed an ulcer, chronic upper back issues, and yes, a sense of grief that I couldn’t seem to shake.
There was also the harsh self-judgement. I believed that a hard day at the office is a first-world problem, and so I called myself every name in the book, from crazy to lazy. But in the end, the only truth was that I needed to recover. I reminded myself that if a friend were to tell me that they’re exhausted, that 40+ years of work and school and worry and grind have burned them out, that they grieve for what feels like years lost in the Cubicle Life Shuffle, I wouldn’t dare undermine them. I would beg them to pay attention, be gentle, give those cuts some time to heal.
So here I am, paying attention. And trying to be gentle.
I have to honor the reality, the good, the bad and the ugly, of a life at work…
The countless hours on trains, buses, and carpools, to get to the endless meetings and phone calls and projects.
The gamut of human emotion and condition I’ve moved through and born witness to in each ten-hour day.
The tyrants, misogynists, liars, and hypocrites, all of whom taught me something about myself that I needed to learn.
And of course, the champions, geniuses, heroes, and survivors for inspiring and elevating me. They’re the ones I want to serve.
When I woke up this morning, I remembered a muse. A tree in the Heights that grew, despite all odds, out of a crack in the concrete in the basement right outside my bedroom window. It knew no water, no earth, no human intervention of any kind. All it got was that sliver of time in a day when the sun actually shone on it. Still and yet, over the years, this whisper of green grew roots, a trunk, and hear-shaped leaves so lush that the super sat under it during hot summer days, as if on some tropical island retreat. I named my coaching business Light of Day in homage to that small spot of hope outside my window. In it, I saw the power of even the smallest moment of encouragement, and the glory, the defiance, of Self-Actualization.
I don’t know who I actually am in all of this, whether I’m the whisper or the tree or only the witness. I only know that I strive to be the light.
To your struggles and to your growth, superheroes. May your own Independence Day be near.
S
Light of Day Coaching LLC 