I’ve never fully allowed myself to dream as an adult. When I
was a child, I would make up these wild stories about being transported to the
moon on the back of a semi truck in the middle of the night and nearly convinced
myself that it actually happened. As an elementary aged kid, my mom, brother
and I would walk to the library with our Radioflyer wagon with these wooden
fence slats that were inserted on the perimeter of the wagon that made tall
walls, like a tiny moving red barn without a roof. We'd proudly stack our books in that moving book wagon and raced home to start reading. We would hit a bump of the uneven city sidewalk and the slats would rattle and shake, threatening our book bounty. Once we returned home, I’d commit myself to my room to read like I needed books to
survive. And I could never get full. Somehow
that never translated to anything more than what I like to do on long plane rides
and on rainy Sunday mornings. I never let myself believe I could write
anything, let alone do it for a living.
I made a good run of it in high school with my friend Seth
as we spent our entire weekends writing to small literary magazines and
journals, desperately trying to get our poems published. 2 out of 20 was pretty
hard to take. I saved the rejection letters in a shoebox because of course I did.
Notably, I did manage to graduate with an English degree and I hang my pride on that every second I get. But the
dreamer died on the semi truck rocket ship. Maybe she fell out of the wooden slats of the book wagon. But she never made it to adulthood.
I don’t know if I convinced myself
that being a writer wasn't a “real” job or I just didn't have any faith that I
was good enough. I’m realizing now, after stepping away from 4 years of
teaching, that I gave up for nothing. I never had “real” proof that I wasn't
good enough, or that it wasn't a “real” job. I was just scared that something that
I love so much would end up crushing me. It’s kind of like refusing to fall in
love because you’re afraid that it will end, or you’ll screw it up, or you’re
not good enough to be loved. Something along those lines.
I don’t regret my journey to today, but it’s been challenging.
Teaching always felt like, “eh, okay this will be fine I guess.” Since I
returned home, a lot of unanswered questions have appeared with answers, scary
ones. Like, the fact that I want to grow most of my own food and have 1.5 kids
in the next two years, especially since, for the first time in my life, my
brother told me he wants to be an “uncle” and coming from an amazing dad like
him, that changed so much of my past, present and future. But the unanswered
question of “What the hell am I supposed to do?” kind of sat there in the
universe and I've been feeling really anxious about it. It’s affected my work
and my relationship with my bosses as I've had a really bad attitude coming
into work, not really understanding why I’m still there or what I’m working
towards.
Today was hard. The sky was cloudy and on my lunch break, I
started perusing higher ed jobs, something I’m convinced is the only thing I’m
qualified for with my master’s in special education. But it’s never felt like enough. Nothing ever
has, except of course, for this exact thing that I’m doing.
My dad and I were laying in the hammock triangle in his
backyard on the evening of his birthday party. Everyone had gone home and we
were waiting for dusk to light a fire. The cicadas were so loud it was nearly deafening,
a sign that fall is looming in the wings. It was a perfect summer evening, rare humid-less air
with even less mosquitoes and just enough heat and chill to make shorts and a
hoodie make perfect sense.
I let out a big sigh and whined about jobs.
“What am
I supposed to do with my life?” The tone of my voice very much matched the tone of my voice as a freshman in college. Annoying and self-important. Mostly annoying.
“Well I don’t know why you aren't writing yet.”
He said it so matter-of-fact that I became defensive. And in
our tradition of not agreeing on many things, I postured, ready to explain why
it was so hard with many solid bullet points. But I didn't even get to spew out
nonsense because he didn't let me.
“How many jobs have you bid for?”
I let out another sigh and mumbled, “One.”
“Uh huh. Apply for 100 and then come talk to me.”
I remembered this conversation today as I pleaded for
answers to whatever or whoever I whine to. And although I’m not yet comfortable
with naming whatever or whoever I whine to, there was an answer. And it was
loud.
While scanning lectures for my boss’ Tedx application, I
came across this.
“Change your words. Change your world.”
Really, universe? Bawling.
Then I watched a Ted Talk about successful people and companies
being in tune to the “why” of their work instead of focusing on the how and
what.
More ugly crying.
And finally, I watched another Ted Talk (I swear it’s part
of my job) where a highly successful woman walked away from a highly-powerful
DC job to be with her family more and stated that she “made the decision as a
woman she didn't know yet.”
And there it was: me on a summer day hanging laundry on the
line, picking tomatoes for lunch, watching our children run around in the backyard
that looks like it goes on forever. Me at home. Me writing at home…..
The power of being the breadwinner at a high paying marketing
job that I've talked myself into no longer made sense.
I’m supposed to write. That’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s
what I've always been. That’s what my mother told me that I was, in a flash of
lucidity the day before she transitioned. That’s what I've been running away
from, because I’m so afraid to fail. That’s why I obsess over old blog posts,
agonizing over using the wrong “than” when I didn't take enough time to edit.
That’s why it’s taken me this long to accept that this is what I’m supposed to
do, because dreams are for kids who want to go to the moon, not someone who
wants health insurance and a farm with kids and dogs and a grove of black
walnut trees.
I don’t know how or when or what this actually means. But I
know my “why” now. And although I’m incredibly emotional at this discovery,
scared out of my mind and blown away that questions can actually be answered
when you’re ready for the answer, I've also realized that it’s always kind of been there, lingering in
the background noise of “what if” and “someday.”
It took me six years to become a pretty great teacher. I don’t
doubt that it will take me just as long to scratch the surface of how this all
works. But I do know that if I stay grateful, enlightened, and aware, I
will get to where I need to be. Good
times teach you gratitude. Bad times teach you hope. And the in-between, grey
sky days are practice for the rest.
It finally stopped raining as I pulled into my parking space after work.
It was a beautiful day, I just couldn't see it.
Because when you stop looking for the answers you've been seeking, sometimes you find that they've been right in front of you the whole time.
And cue the tissues.....