Drifting

Where do you go when you need to figure out where you are?

I have tried writing this post a few times.

I’m not sure what to say. So, forgive me as I ramble.

It’s been like this for two weeks now—specifically, since Monday, April 29.

Shortly after my usual scheduled work shift, I (and my co-workers) received an email informing us that our jobs were over.

I got the news while talking with my mom on FaceTime. I got the inbox notification, glanced at my screen, and saw it was from my editor.

The subject line got right to the point: “XXX is closing.”

Any work in progress was stopped without notice, although we were paid for the assignments that were in progress.

In the 7 years of freelancing for this company, I wrote nearly 2,000 stories.

The work still lingers in the internet ether, but my job disappeared instantly.

Fine.

That was my default answer for the first few days after getting the news. From the moment my mom asked me if I was ok, to the social media post I shared announcing my unemployment, I declared my fineness.

In the big picture, it was true.

My husband has a good job; we have health insurance, my family is healthy, and we can pay the mortgage and our primary bills. That is a privilege I don’t take for granted.

Sure, we’d need to adjust the budget so we can continue to pay down student loan bills and other debt. Many extras are going to the wayside because my income took the pressure off our bills and allowed us to do the fun things we liked to do.

So, I leaned into “fine.”

I couldn’t grab on to other words; none of them felt adequate.

It took me over a week to even look at my resumé with real purpose. Each time I tried, it felt heavy and pointless.

I’m a relic in my field because I’ve put my eggs all in one basket.

I’m 53 years old. I’ve been a journalist/feature writer for over 20 years. I started that career on a whim. I boldly sent a letter to the editor of a local Maine newspaper to see if they could use a writer. I was teaching full-time then, but I already felt the pressure of burnout looming and a nagging need to return home to care for my second daughter.

The risk paid off, and I got one freelance gig. Then, another. The features editor told me if I ever left teaching, I should consider a writing career. I laughed.

A few months later, I got pushed out of education with an ultimatum. I picked up the phone and humbly asked for work while apologizing for laughing at her.

That was in 2003.

Each time a life change arose, I adapted and found a job. I wrote my way into newspapers, websites, and more.

The market is different now. I’m different.

To be a content creator, I must master more than just writing. I have to wrestle with social media, which has transformed into a visual media platform. That means I need to learn video production, graphic design, etc.

I feel lost.

I have many marketable skills but am unsure how and where to utilize them.

This is not the mid-life crisis I imagined.

I’m on the ledge of being a fully realized empty nester. I knew that would be a significant adjustment.

I imagined I’d feel restless in my job and life as I waded into these new waters of transition. I’d look for ways to spice things up. But I’d have the security of my day-to-day life to give me the courage to try new things.

Instead, I got hurled into the middle of the ocean. No lifejacket. I admit I’m drifting.

I have applied for a few jobs, but nothing has come through so far. I’m not even sure they are what I want.

Somewhere deep inside, I know this is an opportunity.

I hope I believe it and make it happen soon.