Today, I Feel —
How do I find myself in the emotional turmoil of March 2020 yet again, and how do I find my way out in one piece?
I almost never have nothing to say.
Today, I feel muted.
The room rings with flurries of furious typing, followed by the long pause of the backspace key. My brain has words, but they feel heavy, plain, and mundane, like trying to make sense of alphabet cereal words in a bowl of oatmeal. I’m pushing the letters around with my spoon, trying to carve out a path to eloquence, color, or clarity, but my efforts seem to lack the necessary vigor to create this story. I’m trying to speak, but the volume is turned down so low I can barely hear it.
Today, I feel inadequate.
Last March, in the early throes of the pandemic, I lost my job. It was a challenging time — coupling together the fear and unknown of the pandemic with a surprise lay-off made for a fearsome duo. I struggled with feelings of inadequacy, exhaustion, and self-doubt. It was only by leaning into those emotions and exposing my vulnerability to a greater community did I feel less alone.
Today, I feel alone.
It’s raining here, the kind of constant rain that only disappears long enough to trick you into thinking it’s over. Much like the pandemic, when the sun creeps out, a few beams fighting their way through the darkness, the rain returns and soaks the land that was drying. There is no actual reprieve — just the knowledge that it could be better, but also could get worse. It’s the kind of rain that’s happy to remind you of sadness, to keep you inside, to keep you to yourself.
Today, I feel grateful.
Grateful for this dreary rain, because I think I would resent a smiling sun today. It’s the perfect kind of rain for another lay-off, another swift kick to the gut. I don’t think I could handle the warmth of the sun trying to wrap me in a comforting embrace, puffy white clouds dancing across the landscape of a bright blue sky.
Today, I feel numb.
And hurt. And tired. And frustrated.
I largely felt numb when I heard the robotic delivery of this bad news, presented with little cushion to soften the blow, a mere hour after discussing project deadlines for the week. Unlike last time, however, I refused tears. I refused weakness. I refused the feelings of anger bubbling up into my throat. I refused to be anything other than robotic myself, making stilted motions to gather my things while trying to gather myself.
I didn’t feel appreciated. I didn’t feel comfortable. I didn’t feel safe.
Safe to express myself. Safe to exist in that space any longer.
I wasn’t protected. My humanity wasn’t protected. I felt like a burden that another was happy to toss off their shoulders, forgetting or uncaring that I might break into a million pieces when I finally hit the ground.
Today, I feel confused.
This is not my fault. It is not because of poor performance or my being anything other than an exemplary employee. How can it be that so few words are spoken, so little reassurance and comfort given? How can people complicit in the action say nothing? The sound of their silent cowardice is deafening. Am I not worthy of parting words? Do you not feel like I am owed at least that much? How can you make a life-altering decision for me and then hide behind a sullen curtain of dead air?
Today, I feel assured.
We all have that voice in our head that acts as our compass. Mine kept telling me that I was lost, that I couldn’t see the forest through the trees, my boots sinking deeper into the muck as I fervently tried to see the path clear before me. It would seem there was no path, which is why I couldn’t find it, why the arrow on my compass kept spinning wildly.
Today, I feel okay.
I will be okay.
My life has been blessed with tremendous privilege, much of which allows me to breathe a little easier than many others who might find themselves in my muddy boots. I’m also cursedly blessed with the knowledge of having experienced this once before now. Getting punched in the face hurts, but it hurts less the second time, when the sting is more familiar, perhaps your face a bit hardened from the last blow.
I shared some advice last year about trying to navigate the world in a time like this, one of the main pieces being the idea that it’s okay not to be okay. I am okay right now. I have felt both the burning of anger and cooling trickle of tears on my cheeks today. I have been scared, annoyed, hopeful, and bewildered.
The first lay-off taught me so many things, about myself and about others. This lay-off will be instructive in other ways, I’m sure, but the biggest lesson I see now is that I am worthy. I have value. I should never doubt that value.
For a long time, I tried to calm the frenetic voice in my head by doubting myself. I was unsure of the footing beneath me, afraid to take too large of a step, worried always that it would be a misstep of my own making. I once wrote about longing to be the woman I had been before my last lay-off, the confident leader who enthusiastically laughed, led, and loved. The woman in red lipstick who wasn’t afraid, who lived vibrantly, not silently.
The sun is peering out at me now, warm rays slowly breaking through the clouds. The rain may come back, but I know the daylight will eventually return to dry any tears. The sadness will dissipate, pools of water instead glittering with reflections of not only what is, but will be.
Today, I feel okay, and that is enough for me because I know that I am enough.
Tomorrow, I feel I will still be enough.
