“You called us a family; we were in love,” I shouted down the halls at Greg: my friend, former colleague, and in this moment, videographer. My slightly loose leather loafers squeaked while I ran away from the recording cell phone. We held back giggles while I tried to maintain the composure of a broken ex being escorted out by office security. It was the first day of winter in LA, marked by the launch of Spotify Wrapped 2023 (this is definitely how winter works, I don’t make the rules). I left the company in July and had weaseled my way back into the office to make one last social media joke featuring me and Spotify. After nearly four years, thousands of zoom calls, hundreds of spreadsheets, dozens of projects, and innumerable Slack messages, I developed kinship with the people I worked with. Whether it was operating a sandwich line, serving sushi, working in an office, or closing sales in a fully remote environment, I’ve struggled leaving every role in my career because of the connections developed with colleagues. As my experience developed, the projects I worked on became more aligned with my interests, and letting go of initiatives I brought to life also tugged at my heart. These observations led to exploring how the stages of leaving this work environment—a place of stability, comfort, joy; a place where time and energy have been devoted—felt strikingly similar to a romantic breakup. While my moment screaming down the office halls was a parodic metaphor about breaking up with my former employer, I experienced various stages of a breakup over the four months following my departure… and maybe even participated in some unhealthy post-breakup behavior. TOXIC MOMENTS (I’m joking. Unless…)
Jokes aside, I wasn’t prepared for the emotional toll and time it would take to process quitting, despite the privilege of making the decision for myself. As I write this, we’re in a market where thousands of employees are getting laid off, and former colleagues are left in the dust of instability and chaos. A few have described scrambling to find themselves a new role to fulfill at the mercy of the competitive hiring pool, almost with indifference to narrowing down roles that would actually be aligned with their personal values or professional interests. Others have admitted guilt and shame around not having any motivation to pursue things at all. There are people whose responsibilities don’t allow for anything other than securing income immediately. The urgency to find a source of income is totally valid. There are also many folks I’ve spoken to (including myself), who carry a pressure to move onto the next thing, even with the privilege of slowing down, afforded by savings/severance/etc. We’re so prepared to jump into the next thing for work. We’re so scared of the discomfort of not knowing what’s next; feeling like we’ll get left behind and not survive. I pause to think about what I’d say to a friend who recently separated from a partner. It’s more likely to be encouragement to find some time and space to process, rather than to push someone into a new commitment right away. In the world of romance, there are friends who might say, 'the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,' but this has only ever served me as a short-term band-aid. It offers comfort and stabilizes things in the immediate moment, but jumping into anything unaligned only leads to more unfulfillment down the line, with the wound underneath festering until given air to breathe. How can someone find satisfaction if they don’t take the time to explore what would satisfy them? I’m inclined to believe that it’s the same with career shifts. So much of myself went into the work and it became a part of my identity. The people I interacted with on a daily basis were an integral part of my life. Processing that loss was unsettling and it took me time to regain my footing in a new routine. It seems obvious to grieve a romance, but conversations around job loss don’t come up as naturally. Exiting a cycle provides an opportunity to realign. Why not take the time to process what was working, and what was not? For anyone who feels lost, exhausted, or disappointed by where they’re at professionally, I hope you can find the grace to give yourself space. Despondency is part of the process. Rest is mandatory. Trust your ability to figure it out. Maybe instead of lamenting a dismal market or accepting whatever comes to you, take the time to find a creative third option. As a newly “single” girly, I’m exploring independence by doing all of the things I didn’t have the time for while in the corporate relationship. Things like focusing on developing my creative skillset, pursuing creative projects, and prioritizing work projects that inspire me as a freelancer—AKA the “focus on myself” post-breakup strategy. TBD on how it’ll end up, but it’s been pretty solid so far. :)
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TL;DR—let's meet up in fun places around the world, you tell me I'm pretty, I'll listen to your life story, and when we separate I occasionally send you memes, songs, or articles that remind me of you. -- I've always been a lover girl. When MySpace was a popular way to spend time, I'd decorate my profile with sparkling GIF quotes, black and white stock-images of a couple's intimate embrace, and self-proclamations of being a "hopeless romantic" 🥴. Now looking back I wonder, what did I really know about love at twelve? I cringe fondly at this cheesy young version throwing herself into that digital space; a little virtual window where I shared my most intimate emotions and explored expressing who I was openly (and in some ways, for the first time). Despite how public it was, there wasn't an algorithm that surfaced my content to "people who you might know" automatically. Somehow it felt less vulnerable if someone might see me by chance. The format wasn't set up for direct engagement. There isn't a fear of rejection if you're just shouting into the internet void with no built in reaction tools. I was able to straddle the line of anonymity and being witnessed. Amusingly, I'm realizing as I write this, the whole expression of myself within social media then (and probably even now) was a bid for love. Exploring love and loneliness through life, I'm finding that love isn't the same as commitment, and loneliness doesn't necessarily come from solitude or the absence of physical companionship. This plays out in every story of an unhappy marriage, or the heavy stillness of loneliness in a crowded room. Feeling fulfilled in love is feeling seen and understood. So the little romantic in me went after that fulfillment for years. There were ups and downs like in anyone's romantic journey, but after several years of serial monogamy, in 2023 I paused the search for romance and sought fulfillment in single-dom. This has led to conversations like: I've learned that casual to me is not always casual for other people. At parties, I'm found either shoveling food into my face, or asking about the memories you have with your parents. A friend laughed at me recently when a girl quickly left our circle after introductions, because she made the mistake of reciprocating my question: "What's on your mind?" (it was the military-industrial complex). I've had moments of casual encounters in between the periods of long term relationships. None were very fulfilling, or we'd immediately jump into a relationship (and thus, the monogamy cycle continues). I didn't understand what I was missing in these moments because 1) I'm not in a space where I want to be committed to someone, and 2) I've become less insecure and possessive with age. However, I'd observe close friends enjoying the freedom and fun of dating multiple people casually—so I knew it was possible! To unwrap why I couldn't enjoy it, I had to define what being casual is and what love is.
The way I was approaching casual, was by withholding my full engagement. I didn't want to be inappropriately invested in something casual. To do so would be embarrassing (or so it seemed from social expectations). I didn't want to share pieces of myself with someone uninterested in receiving me or sharing themselves. I thought giving attention and care (read: love) freely in casual was wrong. Withholding meant restricting enthusiasm. This is what was unfulfilling. I was conflating casual with indifference; intimacy with expectation or commitment. What I'm realizing is that even if I know there isn't a romantic future with someone, I still love learning the ins-and-outs of who they are and what makes them human. I love making people feel seen and cared about, and this doesn't have to be thrown out for the sake of casual, so long as I don't have an expectation of monogamy or anything in return. There can still be playfulness, intimacy, and respect within the container of casual. At the time of writing, I've just past the one year mark of being single by a few days. Over the last year I've spent more time giving myself the energy that I put into my relationships. I think I was so pressed to receive care and attention from another person, I overlooked that I could fill my own cup. Turns out there's an abundance of that energy to fill my own cup and more. Now, I see offering love less like an exchange and more like a regenerative gift. I don't need to withhold in order to feel safe or avoid embarrassment from rejection. I'm not embarrassed to care anymore. It's my prerogative to decide if I have the space to offer it (or not). Not everyone has to receive it just because I offer it, and that's also totally okay. There's a projection in cis-het relationships that women need to get married to feel fulfilled, and that men are obligated to provide financially. I suspect that this creates an environment where offering or receiving attention might feel like a trap into monogamy. On the flipside, it would be unsurprising if people felt exposing their full selves or investing time in being present was deserving of some longterm commitment. It's scary to be vulnerable, even with those that we know are committed to us, let alone those who don't have the designation. I try to operate with a mindset that no one is entitled to anything from anyone else other than a foundation of transparency to make choices for themselves. What attracts me is authenticity and vulnerability. Given my comfort in ~laying it all out there~, it's been a learning curve to find patience for those who aren't able to do the same. It was frustrating to drive conversations that went straight into the brick wall I was talking to. But I'm working on it! Releasing the attachment to making every dynamic "work" has offered a lot of relief and saved a lot of time. These days catch and release of the proverbial romantic fish comes a lot easier because I know I can fill my own tank. Either way, I'll always choose to love freely. This morning, I realized it has been three months since I became homeless. Circumstances led me to move around a lot growing up. Always the new kid, always making new friends. It is/was sad losing connections with the friends from each place but I was still in elementary school so it was easier to let go and look ahead. My sense of attachment to a home didn't really exist. Eventually I ended up in the Valley - a suburb of LA notorious for pornography and girls like the Kardashians. The Valley isn't really all that bad. It's lined with palm trees and wide streets with two-story tract homes. I get nostalgia looking back on hot summer days, lurking like lions with neighborhood kids in the tall grassy savannah that was an abandoned lot across the street from my house. I learned how to swim here, spent quiet nights lamenting my teenage angst on rooftops, and threw parties when my parents weren't around. But with all of these memories, it still never really felt like home, or what I thought home was supposed to feel like. It always seemed like I was the odd person out in groups of friends. I floated around in social circles just enough before I started feeling uncomfortable. This was probably the fault of my own insecurities (#teenagelife) more than anything else, but it just didn't feel right. Enter: San Francisco. After high school I left Los Angeles and went further up the coast to find myself in the Bay Area. College can be such a formative experience because you're removed from relationships that you make out of circumstance (growing up in the same area, being in the same school, etc.) and are surrounded by people who, for the most part, are there for similar interests. You have the opportunity to figure out what you do and do not like and have more freedom with who you spend time with. I spent the next seven years connecting with incredible people who were involved in the arts, who value progress, who prioritize brunch and waiting in really long lines (jk, sorta, not really). I love San Francisco: its smelly streets, its eclectic businesses, the graffiti on the walls. For me, San Francisco was late night dancing at F8 and early morning sunrises on the balcony. It was drinking wine with Nicole while watching (edit: sleeping through) Chewing Gum, drawing butts with Sonia, and crafting with Lizzie. I finally felt at home. Then... Enter: Remote Year. A gnawing emptiness had grown in my gut. In true quarter-life crisis form, I quit my jobs and moved out of my apartment to #findmyself2017. Being in a rut deserves its own dedicated reflection piece, so we'll fast forward to driving through the Olympic National Forest with Tyler one day and then hopping on a plane to Croatia two weeks later. No lease, no apartment, no physical home-- again. Context: I joined a company called Remote Year, which had doubled their Admissions Team in a matter of weeks. All of the new hires threw ourselves into an unknown environment days after signing our contracts. It was toward the second leg of our time in Croatia during a balmy evening sunset when I was sitting with another RY newb, Connor, while he played guitar. "All of my friends back home are telling me how brave I am, how they wouldn't be able to do what we did. Did you have to think about this?" "Not at all." "Me neither." Apparently, it takes a certain kind of psycho to leave everything behind at the drop of a hat. We were all that kind of psycho. Even though these psychos come from all different backgrounds, have different stories and friends, we smashed into each other's realities and connected on impact. I love them and all their psycho-ness (translate: openness). Each person is uniquely and brilliantly him/herself, acting as one crucial piece to the Admissions family puzzle. I've never felt so at home without being "at home." Then, it smacked me in the face as I tripped running downstairs. Getting up from the cold, granite landing, reaching for my phone to report about my idiocy with my fellow psychos, I realized: home isn't where you are, or a physical place at all. Home is a state of being. Home is the warm comfort of being surrounded by your people, the freedom of being yourself, and being present in that feeling to enjoy it. I'm such a friggin' ding dong because I've always heard the phrase, "home is where the heart is," but it's an entirely different story experiencing it. These people have my heart. Being with them is being at home. In San Francisco I was comfortable, but my purpose was missing. It took taking a step off the ledge to find the home I was looking for (har har get it, step, falling, stairs, ha, okay). This morning, I realized it has been three months since I first found my home.
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