Turns Out, My Kids Were Right. I Hate That.

There are certain things in life that are very difficult to admit.

I was wrong.

I should have listened.

And perhaps the most painful one of all:

My kids were right.

God, I hate even typing that.

For years, my kids and my friends have told me the same thing.

“Your job is not your family.”

“Your job is not your life.”

And apparently, for nine years, my response was basically:

That's adorable. You clearly don't understand.

Because I did think my job was more than a job.

I cared.

A lot.

Probably too much.

I cared about the people.

I cared about what happened there.

I cared about my coworkers.

I cared about fixing things.

Protecting people.

Making things better.

If something was falling apart, I wanted to put it back together.

If someone was struggling, I wanted to help.

If there was a problem?

Well, obviously I needed to make it my problem.

Because apparently I had appointed myself Director of Everything That Is Not Actually My Responsibility.

It was an unpaid position.

Excellent benefits.

Mostly headaches.

But after nine years, I decided it was time to leave.

And because I wanted to do the right thing, I gave three months' notice.

Three.

Months.

Let me save you some trouble.

Don't do that.

I thought I was being responsible.

Professional.

Loyal.

Helpful.

I wanted to give everyone plenty of time to transition.

I wanted to make sure things were left in good shape.

I wanted to make leaving easier for everyone.

You know who I apparently forgot to make it easier for?

Me.

Because three months is a very long time when you've already mentally broken up with your job.

It's basically telling someone:

“This relationship is over, but I'll still be living here until October.”

What could possibly go wrong?

And then something happened that I wasn't prepared for.

I started seeing things differently.

People I had relationships with for years suddenly seemed to realize:

Oh. She can't do anything for my career anymore.

And some of them dismissed me surprisingly quickly.

That hurt.

I'm not going to pretend it didn't.

Because when you've spent nine years believing that you've built relationships with people, it's a little unsettling to discover that some of those relationships may have depended on the chair you were sitting in.

Then there are the things I built.

Things I worked hard on.

Things I cared about.

And now I get to sit there and watch some of them change.

Or disappear.

Or fall apart.

And every part of me wants to jump in.

Fix it.

Save it.

Protect it.

And I have to remind myself:

Cyndee. You resigned.

Sit down.

Actually, you're already sitting down.

So maybe just...

stay there.

Then there are my coworkers.

I see people going through things that I would normally jump right into.

I want to help.

I want to protect them.

I want to fix things for them.

Because that's what I've always done.

And now I'm learning the incredibly uncomfortable art of:

Not my circus.

Which is difficult when you've spent nine years helping feed the monkeys.

Meanwhile, my body has apparently decided to participate in this transition.

I go to work with headaches.

I've been getting hives.

My stomach feels sick.

Basically my body is sending me a very clear message:

“WE HAVE RESIGNED. WHY ARE WE STILL HERE?”

And then Friday comes.

Beautiful.

Wonderful.

Glorious Friday.

I leave work and suddenly the world seems brighter.

The air smells better.

Food tastes better.

I may even hear birds singing.

Saturday?

Amazing.

Sunday morning?

Still pretty damn good.

Sunday evening?

My stomach apparently receives the calendar notification that Monday is coming.

And here we go again.

I have never loved weekends this much in my entire life.

Which has made me ask myself a question I probably should have asked years ago.

What exactly was I giving so much of myself to?

Because my kids were right.

My friends were right.

My job was never supposed to be my entire life.

That doesn't mean the nine years meant nothing.

They meant a lot.

I learned things.

I accomplished things.

I built things I'm proud of.

I met people I genuinely care about.

I grew.

I changed.

And there are people from those nine years that I hope stay in my life long after the job is gone.

But maybe that's the lesson.

The people who are really part of your life don't disappear when your job title does.

And the job?

Eventually someone else sits in your chair.

Someone else answers the emails.

Someone else handles the problems.

The place keeps going.

Which is simultaneously comforting and mildly offensive.

Like...

Excuse me? You're all just going to continue without me?

Apparently, yes.

And maybe that's exactly how it's supposed to be.

I'm 52 years old and I'm finally learning something my kids have apparently known for years.

I am allowed to care about my job.

I am allowed to work hard.

I am allowed to care about the people I work with.

But I don't have to give a job all of me.

My job can be part of my life.

It doesn't get to be my life.

So I'm leaving with some lessons.

Care.

But have boundaries.

Help people.

But don't make yourself responsible for saving everyone.

Work hard.

But go home.

Build things you're proud of.

But understand that someday someone may change them.

And if you decide to quit?

Maybe don't give three months' notice.

Seriously.

Three months is ridiculous.

My kids tried to tell me.

My friends tried to tell me.

I didn't listen.

So here I am.

Headaches.

Hives.

An upset stomach.

And counting down the days until I leave the job I once thought was such a huge part of who I was.

Turns out...

I'm still me without it.

Actually, I think I'm about to find out just how much of me has been waiting outside of work all these years.

And I really want to meet her.

Although first...

I have to survive the rest of my three months' notice.

Less work being my life.
More life being my life.

Less stuff. Less bullshit. More life.

And yes.

My kids were right.

Please don't tell them I said that.