More Shameful Confessions

If you haven’t yet noticed, I have this desire to wrap up whatever little ditty I write with an insightful conclusion. I don’t know, it feels cleaner somehow. I get to cast off the stitches and admire my handiwork. As if it’s a finished sweater that won’t unravel.

It manifests as an urge to relay what’s been happening in my life, but convey it as some broader public service announcement. When really, meaning, interpretation, experience… it’s all relative.

Perhaps that’s been somewhat of a hinderance to me sharing online, because I’d espoused a certain way of being so wholly. I mean, we’d set off with such conviction. Living free in 98-square feet, that had to be the answer, right? That had to be our salvation.

And to a degree, it was.

Which is why it kind of pains me to say, I’m writing this from a house. We bought that 100-year old house. True, it’s odd to admit to feeling shame in buying and living in a house; talk about the relativity of perspective.

What led to this “tragic” course of events, you might ask? Was it because you just couldn’t stomach the realities of a composting toilet anymore?

Hardly.

What brought our tires to a screeching halt, at least temporarily, is something so common. So relatable. So necessary. If you guessed money, you’re right.

We blew through savings faster than my little fingers could type, faster than I could recoup the money finding the right words for the right clients I was freelancing for. Pricy dental issues (that’s me!) and just… life. It’s expensive. We can—and should—make ‘adult’ decisions sometimes, and ours was deciding to stay ahead. Not go into debt.

So you buy a house? With THESE interest rates?

Yup.

The plan is to Airbnb the home during warmer months when the outdoor temps support life in our wee little trailer. Then move back into it during the winter, instead of renting a place. If you don’t already know, Wyoming winters can be brutally cold, and we just don’t have the resources to survive in the trailer year-round.

Another change that comes with some shame (or I guess you’re “supposed” to feel shame over it after working for yourself) is… I got a 9-5.

Yes, I’m still writing for my two favorite clients. But part of me just wanted something that didn’t require so much uncertainty. Managing myself and trying to figure out the best next step creatively as a freelancer turned to me procrastinating, turned to me thinking how cool it would be to just earn a steady paycheck. To not have to think about how annoying and irksome it is to “market yourself.” To simply show up, do what I’m paid to do, clock out, done.

That feeling was reinforced after I took on a particularly demanding client. The expectations were unreal, the Zoom calls frequent, the emails dreaded, and the two dudes orchestrating the whole thing were quite a pair.

One never smiled. His shiny face boasted rosy cheeks, but he always appeared in need of a hug or perhaps a second helping of porridge. He reminded me of a little lost wooden toy. A boy toy; think Woody from Toy Story, not the other kind. You know, the ones rich older women swallow whole.

The second character in this lineup was charismatic and engaging with slicked back salt and pepper hair, sharp features, and an unyielding intensity that swung both ways. When he was excited, he was excited! And when he wasn’t? Yeah. He expected me to respond with a, “how high?” every time he dropped a command. But of course, the compensation didn’t match the expectation.

The best part of that job, a moment I’ll cherish forever, was watching him get attacked by his outdoor sun umbrella on a particularly windy day, during yet another Zoom call. The umbrella closed over his head like a carnivorous plant, then snapped open to him flailing his arms, gasping, before closing over him again. I had to shield my amusement behind both hands; my gleeful grin enormous. The wooden toy observed the attack with a deadpan expression, unmoved.

They kept piling on things for me to do, things I’m not good at and don’t particularly enjoy… (social media marketing, anyone?) Then they let me go. Then they returned, came back strong, begging me to work with them again. Turning them down felt incredible.

I found myself yearning for consistency, clear expectations and a steady paycheck. The only stipulation being I had to work from home.

I applied for a job. Days later, I acquired it. Flew to Denver to get the laptop and monitor, and here I am.

If I’m honest, I’m sick of these “rules,” these linear definitions of success… the notion that there’s a “right way” or correct order to how you’re supposed to move through life. Me bringing in this paycheck—on top of writing—is a way to not put so much pressure on myself creatively. To let that part of me rest, or do what it wants, unencumbered by weighty expectations. It’s not a long-term thing, it’s just another adventure. One that makes being mortgage-free in a couple of years a reality, and offers me space to revamp creatively.

Which means freeing ourselves up to get back on the road.

I think trying to convey the message of “this is how I saved myself,” can be short-sighted; a premature full-stop on an immense dynamic experience, and usually something in which we have little control. I don’t think either Chad nor I fully expected to go back, but here we are.

Plus, even when it does work out, we all know that salvation in realizing a goal or dream is never permanent. Yet the urge to yield to the promise of this is it! is irresistible, every time.

Humans are easily bored, novelty seeking, subject to change, and dramatic. Or at least I am. What I can say is that with each new experience and lesson, I’m yielding. I think I’m gaining wisdom, if wisdom’s the right word for admitting the truth: how little I actually know.

Regardless, I’m just happy to be here. Taking it all in.