1 Year

It's been a year since I lost my job.

Scratch that.  I hate that phrase: "Lost my job".  It implies that you, the employee, got lost in the woods, or you allowed your job to scamper off while your back was turned.

My job was forcibly removed from my possession.

And I am better for it.

A year ago I was terrified.

I half-convinced myself we would descend into financial ruin.

We didn't.

I was sure someone in our family would become deathly ill.

All are healthy.

I thought we'd have to go back to apartment living.

We're still here.

In the days that followed the end of my career I shed a few tears, ate some ice cream, took long walks.  I've worked since I was 15 years old, and the longest amount of time I ever took off was the 7 months after I had Big Sis.  I always had a plan, but now I didn't know what to do next.

After I had examined my fears and boxed them up, I started to relax just a little.  My shoulders started to descend from my ears and the lines between my brows smoothed away.

I began to create a new day-to-day life for myself.

One where I could focus on my children, my husband, and our household.  Where the mundane chores of motherhood became the rhythm of my days, and I looked forward to it.

I don't miss my "job" at all.  I don't miss feeling unappreciated, overlooked, and frustrated.  A paycheck may be an employee's 'reward' for work, but for me the psychic toll of anger and frustration created a deficit that no amount of money could soothe.

Every day is not filled with sunshine and rainbows, and I don't whistle while I work.  But I am so much more appreciative of what I have, take so much more joy in my family, and am comforted by the perspective that I am doing what I'm supposed to be doing right now.

I may have lost my job, but I've started to find myself.