and, with that, I breathe again

It’s been a rough week.

Work is dumb. There’s not really another way to put it except that my introverted nature has smashed itself against customer service for far too long. There were two episode of crying in the giant walk-in freezer today, and another crying episode at my friend’s desk. Half my team has called out sick in the past week, and several have called out sick for numerous days in a row. It took everything in my being yesterday to get out of bed, only to come to the end of my shift and be told that my days off would be switched and I’d have to come in and do it again tomorrow. Saying ‘no’ didn’t even feel like an option.

I had lost my voice.

Everything feels menial and dumb. I cut fruit, make sandwiches, build beautiful salads, cook amazing lunches for 40 people, and I still feel stale; life has stalled. I have settled for what is known, what is common, what is familiar. I have sunk back into my old ways of being.

I have lost my voice.

IMG_0849

a friend sent me this, and I think blanket nests may be my love language.

The Voice I hear these days is not one of empowerment, joy, excitement for life, or a celebration of every day absurdities; the Voice I hear is the familiar voice of my past. It’s the one that tells me that I can’t speak up until I have proven myself; that I have no right to share my story, or that sharing my story is shameful and voyeuristic. What makes my words unique? What makes my story any different?

I have lost my voice.

…0r maybe that’s not the case…

…maybe my voice is changing, and I don’t really know how to share it [yet].

Grad school changed me (understatement of the goddamn century), and the past year of post-grad life was something for which no professor or alumni could have prepared me. The daily struggle of being present in this world, with the level of awareness that felt at times like my nerve endings were on fire, left me in shock. Watching classmates open private practices and start businesses while I was ensconced in the walls of a corporate kitchen, or from the cocoon of blankets on my bed, became my weekly torment; when would I do something?

I have lost who I used to be, and maybe that’s the sadness I feel tonight. I grieve the ending of what I knew, and prepare for the newness of who I am becoming with my next breath. This truly is the circle of [my] life.

All I know,
right now in this moment,
is that my blanket cocoon and
The West Wing on Netflix is the only thing keeping me together,

and that is okay for now.

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One thought on “and, with that, I breathe again

  1. It sounds like you’re on the verge of leaving. You can find something great. Find your passion and don’t give up. Good luck!

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