Dreams change. The sad and emotional part of my current psyche is tempted to write "dreams die," but that is altogether too morose. Change is a more honest evaluation, I hope. Or perhaps dreams pause or hibernate or something in that vein. Oh bother, let's just get to it:
At the ripe and eager age of 25 I became the director of a fine and performing arts center. I spoke at the dedication of the beautiful new facility and carved out a mission statement and a strategic plan. I set up meetings with potential collaborators, met local artists of various renown, and choreographed musical numbers for theatre productions. It was exciting. It was fun. I was proud. Peacock levels of pride. I found my dream job way before I ever thought I would and I l.o.v.e.d. replying "I'm the director of an art center" when people asked what I "do." I was willing to lose countless hours with family and friends, commuting 100 miles every day. I was willing to throw away money on gas and vehicle repair. I had a nameplate on my desk and artwork on the walls of my office.
It was a sweet office.
Pride! It snuck in and burrowed a home and justified itself over and over again. It seemed worth it at the time and I was good at the work. In so many ways, I am made for that work.
But then there was Alice. The refocusing and centering that occurs in short order after childbirth is terrifying. It is difficult to distinguish if I'm losing myself or finding myself, honestly, and postpartum depression took the air out of my lungs for a solid month or two after I went back to work. I'd never experienced the sensation of drowning in the day-to-day that depression can cause. I recall telling our pastor that I felt as if I was gasping for air.
Changes at work. Hard, mean changes. They made clear that it was time to let go. To undertake the arduous process of needling out this burrowed pride and to seek humility in the form of work that would be best for our family, best for living in community, best for my new dream job- being Alice's mom.
I made this decision with relative confidence, yet I find myself mourning the loss and struggling with resentment. The new job is close, but the cubicle is standard. Working part time means a day home with Alice, but it is a frightening leap financially. And the job title? It is going to take time to embrace it. Its not going to roll off my tongue at parties and the last thing I want to do is harp on what I used to be ("well, right now I'm this, but I'm actually this").
Honesty and humility- that's what I'm working on. And contentment. And trust. And letting go of worry because I can't pay bills in hours of lost sleep.
And all this soul work is being done while pumping breast milk every couple hours at my new job.
Life is hard sometimes, isn't it?
At the ripe and eager age of 25 I became the director of a fine and performing arts center. I spoke at the dedication of the beautiful new facility and carved out a mission statement and a strategic plan. I set up meetings with potential collaborators, met local artists of various renown, and choreographed musical numbers for theatre productions. It was exciting. It was fun. I was proud. Peacock levels of pride. I found my dream job way before I ever thought I would and I l.o.v.e.d. replying "I'm the director of an art center" when people asked what I "do." I was willing to lose countless hours with family and friends, commuting 100 miles every day. I was willing to throw away money on gas and vehicle repair. I had a nameplate on my desk and artwork on the walls of my office.
It was a sweet office.
Pride! It snuck in and burrowed a home and justified itself over and over again. It seemed worth it at the time and I was good at the work. In so many ways, I am made for that work.
But then there was Alice. The refocusing and centering that occurs in short order after childbirth is terrifying. It is difficult to distinguish if I'm losing myself or finding myself, honestly, and postpartum depression took the air out of my lungs for a solid month or two after I went back to work. I'd never experienced the sensation of drowning in the day-to-day that depression can cause. I recall telling our pastor that I felt as if I was gasping for air.
Changes at work. Hard, mean changes. They made clear that it was time to let go. To undertake the arduous process of needling out this burrowed pride and to seek humility in the form of work that would be best for our family, best for living in community, best for my new dream job- being Alice's mom.
I made this decision with relative confidence, yet I find myself mourning the loss and struggling with resentment. The new job is close, but the cubicle is standard. Working part time means a day home with Alice, but it is a frightening leap financially. And the job title? It is going to take time to embrace it. Its not going to roll off my tongue at parties and the last thing I want to do is harp on what I used to be ("well, right now I'm this, but I'm actually this").
Honesty and humility- that's what I'm working on. And contentment. And trust. And letting go of worry because I can't pay bills in hours of lost sleep.
And all this soul work is being done while pumping breast milk every couple hours at my new job.
Life is hard sometimes, isn't it?
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