Workiversary

One year ago, I went to work.

That’s such an ordinary statement, especially now, after a year has passed, but at the time, it felt big. Like, really big. And important.

It had been nearly a month of clearances and trainings and paperwork leading up to that day, and I remember walking out of my orientation the day before with an ID in my hand and a kinda sorta plan for the next day. Ready or not, the job was waiting for me.

My memory is fuzzy about a lot of things from this past year, mostly because there are so many experiences. I remember how quite a few of my first days were two-hour delays, which was an extra measure of grace as I learned my job, although it made getting into any kind of routine difficult for a few weeks. And I remember thinking how fortunate I was to have a job with the same schedule as my kids, especially on these delay days. I’m not good with spur-of-the-moment plan changes that require extra effort for decisions like “what do we do with the kids?”

Two weeks into my job, before I’d even received a paycheck, I wrote this longish post about what it meant for our family to have a second income, even if it was small. (It’s kind of a financial history of our family, and it is some of the rawest stuff I’ve ever written.)

A year later, I can still say that this job has been more than just a paycheck. If it was just a paycheck, I’m not sure I’d still be doing it. The extra money has been nice for our family, yes. We’ve reduced our debt load though not completely eliminated it, and we were able to make wise decisions to benefit our family’s overall wellbeing, not just get by or survive. (The differences between thriving and surviving and huge, and it is hard to bridge that gap.)

But beyond the money, this job has awakened something inside of me.

When I was little, I would dream of being a teacher. (It’s the same life goal my daughter has now.) I don’t know if it was because I liked school and I mostly looked up to my teachers or because I sort of liked being “in charge.” Or maybe it was because school was my whole world and I didn’t really know anything different. Somehow, this “dream” faded and I decided I was too shy to stand in front of a group of children (whatever their age) and lead them day-in and day-out.

When I think back on it, I wasn’t just shy, I also wasn’t confident. If I had attempted being a teacher earlier in life, I don’t think it would have worked out. Even at age 40, going to school every day, where there are teenage students, is a test of confidence. Mostly I consider it all practice for the fast-approaching days of parenting teenagers. 

People have asked me if I would consider going back to school to get my teaching degree and if they had seen how much I initially resisted applying for this job, they might not ask. Truthfully, I’m not ready to even look into it. I’m not sure it’s what I’m meant to do and as long as I don’t get any more information, I can’t consider it further. (This is me sticking my head in the sand. )

While I might not have made a good teacher in my 20s and 30s, for some reason, being a paraprofessional (I heard a friend call it “parapro” for short and this makes me sound like a superhero, so this abbreviation stays.) in my 40s is the exact right fit.

Maybe it’s the kids I serve. They tug at my heartstrings, and I have lots of room in my heart for them. I am at a place in my life where I care deeply for others. (This has not always been the case.) Much internal work led to this, but I feel really lucky that five days a week I get to act on my compassion for others in tangible ways.

I was so scared that my new job would somehow diminish what I think is my life’s work as a writer. That somehow my purpose for living would seem less. But the truth is I feel more alive now than I ever have. I can look at the time I spent at home, trying to put words to the page, trying to make something happen with my writing, binge-watching Netflix and scheduling coffee dates in the city with more honesty now. While I’m glad I had the opportunity to rediscover myself after years of stay-at-home parenting, and while I cherished the freedom those days allowed and the experiences I was able to have working with refugees, overall I was drowning a little bit. I can see the slow slide into something in the neighborhood of depression. I know myself well enough to know that if I don’t have to leave the house, I won’t. Comfy clothes, sporadic showers, too many snacks–this was my life, and it wasn’t the dream I tried to make it out to be.

These five hours I work outside the house now force me to do a lot of good things. Interact with adults, for example. Wear clothes that look good. And make better use of my time. When my days are full, there is no “I’ll do it tomorrow” for important things. (I mean, I still do put things off, but not as frequently.) I have to budget my time. I have to make use of the two hours after work before the kids come home. This is when I run or squeeze in an errand. I wake up most days at 6 to get some writing in before we start getting ready for school and work. Before, I would crawl out of bed about the same time as the kids because all I felt I really needed to do was get them ready for school and on the bus. Then it was “me” time. (And that often meant more coffee, second breakfast, and/or a trip into the city.)

I feel more productive and purposeful. Maybe more tired, too, but not always. It’s a funny thing, how this work doesn’t drain me even though it requires more of my mental and physical energy than staying at home did. I am energized by the work and therefore able to keep moving, most days, when I get home while still being appropriately tired at night.

Initially, I thought I was taking this job for the good of my family. For the extra income. And I was. But I didn’t realize that I was actually doing it for me. How much I needed to do something that wasn’t directly for my husband or my kids. These hours at work are all mine and I think it makes my conversation a little more interesting because I have done something all day and I have new work friends I can tell my family about. How for a few hours a day, my life is about something more than what’s inside the walls of my house.

And I think I serve my family better now because my whole world isn’t about them. (This dynamic is still a little bit mysterious to me because I know other women who serve their families so well by staying home. We are all different with different needs.)

So, it’s been a year. And I’m celebrating that because my life is richer for having this job, and it was the first of many steps I needed to take to be more me.