Yesterday was my final day in a job I’ve had for nearly twelve years. We had a nice farewell morning tea, and I talked more to some people I worked with than I have in years.
I packed up the last of the detritus from my office, set an email auto-reply, and closed my work email for the last time. Then I was officially job-free.
Several random people waved friendly greetings or complimented my plant as I walked to my car. It might have been because I was wearing a hat with ears.
It might have just been a weird day.
Leaving a place with good people that has been a home for you is sad, but I didn’t feel sad. I get to choose what to do next and that should be exciting, but I didn’t feel excited.
I felt numb.
Then it struck me that I don’t have a job and I may not even have an occupation any more. For a moment I fell.
I’ve always had interests outside work, but I was surprised to realise how much of my identity has been tied up in what I do.
Intellectually, I know my value doesn’t come from my standing in my profession, yet I can’t help but feel less without it.
I’ve always been work-me plus personal-me, and now I’m just personal-me. Is it a wonder I feel smaller?
I know I’ll be fine, and soon I’ll feel happy and free, but for now it intrigues me to take these feelings out, examine them with a microscope, and consider how I might use them in my fiction.
Have you ever experienced anything like this? Any wisdom to share?
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