My dear sweet brother picked me up from my final day of work today.
“What have I done?!” I asked him in the car, staying mostly very calm, “I’ve quit my job!”
“You’ve quit a job” he corrected me. Striking closer to the heart of the matter than he realised. Before this past couple weeks I had no idea how deeply engrained my work is to my sense of identity. It’s the job I’ve had since my first year of uni, I’ve grown up, changed and gone through so much since I was first hired as a Christmas temp back in 2007.
When I handed in my notice I felt like I’d hacked a chunk out of my persona. This realisation has made me all the more determined to find something I can do, and be proud of. Something that truly reflects me and my personal ideals.
“But… I’m unemployed!” I continued my attempt to gain sympathy.
“No, you’re merely open to new opportunities,” he corrected me again, with wisdom beyond his years (I like to think he got that from me).
He’s right of course, and as long as I think of it like that, I’m filled with excitement rather than panic.
I’m free!


