there’s a fight. the life i want vs. the way i make a living. i don’t like it one bit. i don’t fight the notion that forward movement is paramount. i know i have to do A to get to B. but there’s this cacophony of every supportive voice i’ve ever heard combining with my own higher self pretty much singing in a round ‘this isn’t where you’re supposed to be. you can’t stay here.’
it’s not the work that comes w/ the promotion. i don’t care about workload — i can get stuff done without feeling overwhelmed most times, even with the two functions i serve in one office. this bridge called my back, anyone?
it’s not that. and it’s not the being on the spot, going to meetings, pressing through . . . all that doesn’t matter.
it’s that, at the core of myself, i know without a doubt in my mind, with every fiber of my being, that i’m supposed to be welcoming babies into the world. i’m supposed to be throwing fabulous events with dear friends and enjoying not having a day job. this shit is not even for the birds — those motherfuckers are happy doing what they do. it’s . . . it’s just not for me.
so now i’m having problems sleeping at night because i don’t effin wanna be where i have to be the next morning.
i don’t tie my rent to that job. i tie money to that job. when i leave, i will be making the same money, if not better, because i know that’s how it’s supposed to be. i will teach, i will tutor, i will doula, i will study, i will do everything i need to do to keep this roof over my head.
and you know what?
it won’t have shit to do with that ‘good city job.’