The Space Between

    In two days it will be Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year. Not once in my life have I ever given the Solstice 

any attention. Not once. But this year, I happened upon an Instagram post a book full of the rituals and explanations on the importance of the Solstice. It is, symbolically, a representation of the death and rebirth of the sun, and also of ourselves. And this night asks of us, what parts of us need to die so that other parts can turn towards the light? 

Oof. What a heavy and loaded question. But also? How important. And then I began wondering, can we afford not to ask ourselves this question? And it’s a question I’ve been grappling with for the past couple of years. In 2020, when the world skidded to a halt and kind of ripped us all down to the studs, like many people I know, there was a lot of sitting in the silence and evaluating. Looking around at our lives and asking ourselves, “Would I choose all of this?” It’s a lot easier to do when we aren’t commuting, scurrying from piano lessons to softball practice, filling all of our moments with people and things. All the quiet left room for my intuition to speak loudly. Wait, let me clarify – I’ve always been able to hear my intuition.  She’s loud and gregarious and usually spot on, and I absolutely, fundamentally believe in the power of listening to your gut. I’m also highly skilled at tuning mine out. 

         I’ve had immense practice – my poor intuition has been squelched down so often that I’m shocked she even comes up for air anymore. I’ve become spectacularly adept at hearing the rumblings, tuning in, and then channeling all of my energy into the exact opposite. It’s the reason I picked up hitchhikers when I was in high school; it’s the cats I bought on impulse one weekend when I had a newborn baby at home. It’s why I continued to date the guy who bought me a hot pocket for my twenty third-birthday. A HOT POCKET.  It’s the millions of tiny decisions where I knew better but refused to follow my gut. 

But the time and the quiet in between sourdough starters* and working from home/ homeschooling small children created a shift. Tiny at first, but persistent enough to gnaw at me from the inside. And while looking at what needed to die in order for other parts to thrive, I recognized that I needed to leave my job. From the hoards of people leaving recently in the “Great Resignation,” I was not alone in this decision. 

        This was not a decision taken lightly, nor was it random and impulsive. It had been building and simmering for a while and it’s a decision that both feels exhilarating and crushing. I loved so many parts of my job. It was more than a profession, as most educators will tell you. And for a long time I believed that I couldn’t care about something and also know that it wasn’t where I needed to be. I struggled to believe that both things could be true. I love teenagers and their quirky energy. Forging connections with students is something that has and will always mean so much to me. I adore my coworkers, and I am obsessed with literature and the written word. I believe education is the most essential field in our society. (So why aren’t we funding it as such!? I digress!). 

        But working as an educator also came with some pretty hefty costs. Those costs looked like struggling mental health, sacrificing the type of energy I wanted for my family, and frustrations with a broken system that doesn’t always allow for everyone to thrive. Something had been whispering to me for a while – this isn’t quite it. Not like this. Not in this time of life. The truth is that while trying to be an educator, a mom to young children, and a version of myself that I liked, I felt sad and burnt out. I struggled (and still do) with crippling anxiety and dreams I was too scared to say out loud. 

And so this school year, I finally listened and I left my field. We began making plans to tap into some other dreams of living abroad. Again, dreams I hadn’t bothered to speak life to until all of the hustle died away. And now those plans are wildly up in the air as the pandemic regresses and cities around the world are going back into lockdown. Things are pushed back indefinitely, so for the first time in, well, ever, I have no job and I don’t have a single plan in place. It is, without question, an immense privilege to be in this position without panicking financially. I am grateful (and slightly furious) that my partner works in sports television and is therefore able to make up for my lost income. Again, it’s quite lovely what we prioritize in this country. (There I go again with the digressions). 

Not having a job is the strangest feeling I’ve ever experienced. I used to dabble with the idea of being a stay-at-home mom, but my identity felt too entrenched in what I did for a living. I’ve had a job since I was fourteen, selling flats of raspberries on the side of the road with an emergency bucket to pee in, and I’ve been working ever since. Not working taps into so much discomfort and insecurity about being a “kept” woman without independence, but I’m trying to push that toxicity down and look at this time with a new lens. My natural instinct is to whip out the journal and the lists and launch into a goal-setting frenzy, marching towards my next career path and phase of life. But therein lies the problem. 

“So what would you do instead?” Ah yes, the million-dollar question that’s kept me paralyzed with indecision and spinning my stagnant wheels. I’ve had a lot of long-lasting passions and short-lived interests. I didn’t want to choose something just for the sake of choosing, and choosing one direction also meant losing something else. 

At any given time, I’ve felt passionately about education, writing, editing, being a stay-at-home mom, photography, activism, women’s rights, mental health counseling, traveling, refugees, learning languages, and opening a bookstore. It’s ten lifetimes of dreams, and I haven’t known how to choose, so I’ve kept my head down, ignored my inner-knowing, complained to everyone I knew, and stayed put. I’m quite sure I was a delight to be around. 

         But the pandemic happened that quite literally divided the world into before and after, and I knew I couldn’t go back to before. I’d listened too much and things had become painfully clear. But the idea of tearing everything down without a plan in place scared the life out of me, and still kind of does. And why shouldn’t it? 

        We are a culture dripping in hustle, thriving on plans and and S.M.A.R.T. goals. It starts when we’re infants having to prove ourselves at each milestone and once we’re on the fringe of adulthood we’re asked to map out our lives and our aspirations. As a lover of five-year plans and color-coded lists, stopping altogether without a next destination feels foreign and uncomfortable and goes against every belief and natural impulse. But I also have no doubts that it was the exact right thing to do.  

It’s kind of like this philosophy that French parents have for newborns – when they start to cry in the middle of the night, don’t rush to their sides. Give them five or ten minutes and see if they figure out on their own. It’s excruciating, and I might add that it never, ever, worked on my children, but I’m seeing if it will work for me now. 

This is my grand experiment – what happens if I really dive into my life, the things that have been stuffed into the crevices for so long, and wait for things to come to light now that I’ve allowed other parts of me to die? What if I live in the abyss for a little while – that vast space in between who I used to be and who I will become? What if instead of searching towards an arbitrary goal just to have a goal, I give it the time and energy it deserves to explore and know what’s right? The ultimate reset. And what if I took advantage of this time to give my family, my passions, and my wellbeing everything they’ve been lacking? I believe I have even more to let go of before this becomes possible, but I know I’m on the right trajectory.  

        So what does it look like to a kept (puke) woman with no clear definitive pathway in sight? Well, I took my son to his preschool field trip to the pumpkin patch and cried with happiness the whole way home. Every day after school, I meet my daughter with snacks and energy to hear about recess politics. The things that I’ve outsourced for my most of my children’s lives are things that I’m finally here for. 

        I’m writing more. Well, I’m also buying things that have quotes about writing, and I’m now the proud owner of an Oxford comma sweatshirt, but I have zero regrets. I’m discovering how much I love creating art and photography, how much I enjoy finding beauty in small moments. I’m taking long, daily walks and doing a deep dive to combat the anxiety that still plagues me regularly. I’ve started doing some volunteer work and I’m trying my hand at hip hop dance, just because. 

       It is the space that I am grateful for, and one that is allowing me to unearth and explore dreams that would have otherwise stayed buried. I’m still somewhat uncomfortable with not knowing. I hear the criticisms – the ones in my own head and the ones I’ve imagined others may be thinking. I’m lucky that this works for my family and I’m refusing to take this opportunity for granted. I am recognizing that I am more than my work. I deserve to feel passionate about what I do AND still have leftover energy for my life. I am not who I was and I am still not yet who I will be, but I am becoming. I can’t stay in this space forever, but for the short while it’s been granted, I will wait, and I will embrace the ever-loving-hell out of my life and I will keep turning towards the light. 

*I’m far too lazy/intimidated to make my own sourdough starter. More power to you those of you doing just that.