It is Groundhog’s Day for that feeling—the feeling that I am wasting away, that I am not doing my version of meaningful work.
I am once again waiting for a door to open, for a sign to come, the prescriptive voice of a god, anyone, really, saying loudly: “this is what your life’s work is”.
Sometimes, I wake up and all I want is to run away—maybe to a farm? But away from the chaos, the rat race and just be still.
Other times, I want to join the people they call the masters of the universe, the ones who every story and admiration is trained on. They never have to worry about their safety or security, they have seemingly purchased it all. Is that really true though?
Now, a little voice remembers to question and interrupt this thought pattern. Is there an amount of money that would make me feel safe or whole? I know intellectually that the answer is no, but the feeling has not caught up yet. Hence, each time I think of working differently, an imaginary calculator pops open in my brain.
That small voice existing now is progress. Growing up in Nigeria where I am from, close to wealth and not far from destitution it is really difficult to not see money as power as security and protection.
I saw how society chews up the have-nots and allows the haves greater personhood.
As a child, one of the earlier times I was asked what I wanted to be, without much thought I replied, “a journalist,” and whoever was asking responded with disappointment about how poor I would be.
It is the earliest memory I have connecting what I want to do with how much money it will bring me.
I spent a lot of my childhood trying out different answers to see what felt most like me but met the rigid criteria for status, wealth and protection.
It is not surprising to see that I still carry the same struggle of wanting meaning, purpose and excitement but defaulting to what I was taught to be true.
After graduating college, I felt dread pursuing what I had majored in economics because, unlike my attempts at pursuing engineering and architecture, I knew I could do a good job at it and that felt even more constricting as the option to leave because I sucked was not available.
Safety won the day and I got a job to which people reacted with approval and awe, criteria from childhood that let me know I was on the “right” path. So, I shoved down any confusing feeling I had and bathed in the awe of all the people who were proud of me.
Like anything that gets lodged in your head for years, I ended up making the search for meaningful work precious. An unfortunate thing that adds pressure and anxiety to an already difficult brew.
A few months ago, I finally convinced myself to start very small, to allow myself to try things and see what energizes, to remove future expectations and to just have fun.
The difference in this journey to come alive in my work is that unlike the previous chapters I have an inner voice that is telling me that I have changed my circumstances for the better before, so it is possible to do it again. I used to be the unavailable sister, friend and daughter. I optimized all my energy to be productive at work and spent a lot of time isolated.
The pandemic made it clear that this was no way to live, so I slowly started rebuilding my community. I have no idea what or where the destination is, but like my journey to get rebuild my community, I feel more comfortable traversing the terrains of discomfort to figure out what good work means for me.
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