growing up – #adulting

Show Yourself, 29

I turn 29 today. My “golden birthday,” even. 29 on the 29th.

And I’m celebrating with a Frozen 2 Birthday Cake and Animal Crossing, because the number 29 doesn’t mean a thing.

…Or so I claim.

The truth is, I’m struggling with 29. The last year in my twenties feels a lot like the last chance to finally get it all right. I know that’s all in my head, and we spend our entire lives discovering who we are. But there’s something about the looming cloud of 30 that has me on edge. It feels so adulty, and I wonder how prepared I am to enter that decade in a year.

Really, this meme sums it up nicely:

There is drool dripping down my shoulder from the stalking decade that seems to scream adulthood in a rather dinosaur-like fashion. I have exactly 365 days to prepare for a milestone that seems to mean I’ve reached the peek of adulthood and will successfully execute all the important things responsible individuals are supposed to do.

Perhaps I’m struggling a little because I always thought I’d have a few kids in this house and a book published by 30. From an education and a career standpoint, I am exactly where I always hoped I’d be, and I couldn’t be prouder. But the rest of the fragments have yet to fall into place. I am an unfinished jigsaw with uneven pieces and thousands of colors.

One cannot put a deadline on growth. We are constantly evolving, every step of our journey guiding us toward the unpredictable and the unexpected. The adventure shapes us as we travel, and the phrase “according to plan” doesn’t carry much weight in the grand scheme of the universe. In my experience, trying to follow a tight life plan has really only lead to frustration and heartache.

And here I thought adults always had a plan.

So, there’s some dissonance here. Something not going “according to plan” brings sadness and disappointment, so I’m inclined to believe I should just go with the flow and let the world take me where I am meant to be. But simultaneously, I’ve come to expect adults to be organized and sure of themselves. These two sides are yanking me in separate directions, and I’m tearing at the center trying to figure out where I should be standing as life whisks around me.

Sometimes there’s a storm in my head. A hundred little things pick up in the wind and spin at the back of my skull. A tornado of words and ideas and ideals spins around my mind and maybe you’ve seen the lightning in my eyes. I overthink. I feel anxious. I become disoriented and am not always sure which direction to head.

I don’t know if I’ll be ready for 30 when she comes next year.

I don’t know if 52 weeks is enough time to collect my missing pieces and settle into myself.

But I do know that 30 doesn’t have to be a cap on discovery, and I’ll spend the next 12 months accepting that.

I know that if I love my hardest along the way, the journey forward will be sweet.

It won’t always be easy.

The balance is rickety.

But it will be a glorious year filled with endless surprises. Mostly because my plan just flew out the open car window as I was singing “Show Yourself” at the top of my lungs.

–

“Show yourself
Step into your power
Throw yourself
Into something new

You are the one you’ve been waiting for
All of your life
All of my life”

A Steaming Cup of Blankey

It’s official. It happened. I’ve been waiting for it. It has been barreling toward me for a while now. I’ve dabbled in it before, you know, tested it out just a little, enjoyed over-priced substitutions. But at last I’ve reached the milestone from which there is no return. I feel like I’m finally inducted into some secret adulthood club and can actually call myself a real member.

I’ve officially reached the point in adulting where coffee is basically holy water.

Ah, coffee.

Growing up, the aroma was glorious, but when you tasted the dark liquid from your Dad’s mug, you sputtered and gaged, because that’s just nasty. Why doesn’t it taste like it smells? Why do grown-ups drink this crap?

“It’s an acquired taste,” my Dad would tell me.

So… you drink foul black fluid until you trick yourself into believing you actually like it? What’s the point?

Now, sitting here sipping a steaming cup of joe twenty years later, I get it.

A cup of coffee brings an adult comfort like the way our blankey used to bring us comfort. Apparently, when you become an adult, it’s frowned upon to carry around your blankey. So, instead, we keep it in a drawer and we pour a soothing cup of coffee. We inhale the splendid fragrance, and enjoy a taste we used to hate but now can’t live without.

“Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.”

“Okay, I’ve had my coffee. Now don’t talk to me, because now I have to poop.”

“Okay, I pooped. But don’t talk to me, because I don’t like you.”

Ah, adulthood.

A spectrum of ups and downs and undefined in-betweens that rush us, whirl us, and leave us breathless in their wake.

It’s a lot. Too much, even.

But nothing a steaming cup of blankey won’t fix.

For The Boscos

You couldn’t pay me to go back to high school.

But I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to do it over again, only with the mindset I have now.

There are so many things that seem like the end of the world when we are navigating those musty halls and squeezing by crowds to get to the bathroom. (Then punching the hand dryer once inside to hide the sound of our pee.)

My anxiety was through the roof the first day of 10^th grade as I entered the cafeteria with my books and sack lunch. It was the moment I had been dreading all day: the selection of a lunch seat. I moved from Ohio to Michigan in the middle of my Freshmen year of high school, so I was not walking into a crowd of familiar faces. I was diving into a writhing sea of the worst kind of antagonists: high schoolers.

I paused only a moment, hurriedly scanning the horizon of bobbing heads for a familiar face. I found no one. Biting my lip, I sat down at the nearest empty table. Alone. I was that girl. That poor loser without friends quietly eating lunch and reading a book. This was before smartphones, so I couldn’t even scroll to look busy. I felt the heat of an invisible spotlight as I munched on a carrot stick and felt a cold sweat on my back.

As an adult looking back, I recognize how ballsy it much have seemed to sit down by myself on the first day, and I’m proud of that. But now it seems so strange to think we ever dreaded sitting alone at all. I WELCOME it, now. Don’t sit by me.

If I could go back, I’d stride across the cafeteria with a bag of Bosco Sticks in hand (because I freaking miss those delicious rods of grease). I’d sit as far away from the crowd as humanly possible, then smile pleasantly to myself as I enjoy my quiet lunch in solitude.

But the anxiety of high school was, and probably will always be, overwhelming.

Where am I going to sit? Who is going to be my partner? What topic should I choose to present to make me look cool? Which people should I talk to? Should I even try out for this play? What if no one asks me to the dance? Will the groups for this project be assigned? Should I make eye contact with this person walking down the hall? What English elective is going to look better on my transcript? Do you think people will like these pants? Are seats assigned? Does this teacher like me? Who’s my locker buddy? What if lunch boxes are nerdy this year? What if I have to poop during this test?

I cannot believe how much time I wasted worrying about things that didn’t matter. The anxiety is devastating, and I wish I could do it over again knowing exactly what matters and what doesn’t. I wish I could pass this knowledge down to others, but it won’t stick. It never does. I can’t tell you how many times my mother tried to tell me it wasn’t the end of the world. I was convinced it was, and no one was ever going to tell me different!

Perhaps it’s a rite of passage. Maybe going back and doing it like a carefree loaner wouldn’t give me the necessary experiences needed to develop into a successful adult. I guess on some level, high school builds character.

Well. I’ve got enough character in me at this point, thanks very much.

You couldn’t pay me to go back.

Might do it for the Boscos, though.

The Identity Crisis

As I rise to a more advanced level of adulting (you know, like this is a video game or something), I find myself yanked toward a less adult-like view of my life and the direction I should be headed. It’s strange; one would assume my delusions would decrease as I age, but these days they seem more prominent than ever. They are a thriving, twisting essence existing above my mind. I try to reach for them, my fingers nearly grazing the aura around them, but I never quite grasp them at their core.

I have always been a motivated individual. Like most, I am inspired by money to a certain extent. But to a higher degree, I am driven by titles and the perception of success. Paycheck aside, does my title and achievements portray an image of an efficacious adult? This is the mindset that pushed me through grad school and countless interviews for my dream job. This is the point of view through which I strategically mapped a ten-year career path with my company, and this is the vision which has propelled my exceptional work ethic each day.

Knowing these qualities and this drive within myself, I should be craving leadership. I should be after the management position for my team as soon as it opens. I should be meticulously following the plan, ready to play the game, anxious to dive deep in a black lake of politics.

But I am tripping in this spot.

The older I get

The more I write

The more creativity I bring into my role at work

The more I realize I want nothing to do with the political game attached to management in a corporate setting. It’s a toxic, obligatory appendage that could never be amputated, and I don’t think I want it.

And here lies the identity crisis.

There are two things I want more than anything in this world, more than I want to be a leader or a manager.

To write, and to be a mama.

My adult brain is telling me I am supposed to keep pushing my corporate career and become a successful leader…But my heart is screaming to be a successful creator. I fear leadership will offer no room for creation, and this is terrifying me.

Tripping me.

I love my current role, because I get to build something meaningful from scratch. Am I willing to trade that satisfaction for an executive title with a knotted mess of strings attached?

There is an invisible line drawn between passion and profession, and I am dancing on it. Sometimes, we find ourselves believing our passion cannot possibly be our profession. Creative writing completes my soul while the corporate game pays the bills and builds this mirage of success.

Could passion ever be profession?

Let’s find out.

Bizarre, Babbling, Bumbling Band of Baboons

We don’t know what we’re doing. We’re a bizarre, babbling, bumbling band of baboons trying to figure it all out. But we’re not alone.

Adulting is this bizarre status we all thought we wanted. When we got it, we wanted to return it, but didn’t have the damn gift receipt. If anyone knows where I can exchange adulthood for childhood at the age of 28, please, for the love of God, let me know.

Sometimes, adulthood slowly creeps up on you. Here’s a list of twenty things that tell you that you are, in fact, adulting now. Good fricken luck.

Realizing how wrong you were to be in a hurry to grow up.
When consuming an entire bottle of wine in one sitting is normal.
Realizing boredom is a wonderful, wonderful thing.
When you start referring to technological advancement as a “Capitalistic Ploy.”
Accepting the frigid reality of having just 2 weeks’ vacation out of a 52-week year.
Choosing a movie on Netflix based upon its runtime so that you aren’t up past your bed time.
Doing laundry before you run out of clean underwear.
When you start referring to the teenagers in the streets as “hooligans.”
That moment you’re standing motionless in front of the wall of toilet paper at the grocery store, trying to figure out what the best deal is.
That moment you’re standing motionless in front of the wall of toilet paper at the grocery store, because it’s fucking empty thanks to the ‘rona.
Having the daily “we have food at home” talk with yourself on the way home from work.
When “putting on your big girl panties” is both literal and figurative.
When talking to yourself becomes “consulting the expert.”
Using adult-like excuses to get out of plans you really regret making.
- i.e. “Sorry, I can’t make it, I have to meet with my financial planner this afternoon.”
Realizing just how wrong you were when you refused to nap as a child.
Pretending you don’t have any money so that you can keep your money.
Buying a Costco membership.
Thrusting your eyes open and panicking at 6 AM when you hear the garbage truck coming down the street.
When you regularly use words like “refinance,” “equity,” and “investment.”
Developing a professional verbal filter and corresponding dictionary.
- “Per my last email” = “Bitch, can’t you read?”
- “I’m fine.” = “Fuck off.”
- “I would be happy to sign a Non-Disclosure agreement…” = “You can keep your shit.”
- “I can work with it and see.” = “You don’t know what you’re talking about, but I will make it happen because I’m awesome.”
- “I will prioritize this.” = “I’ve got so much shit on my plate, but don’t worry, I can make your problems my top priority right now.”
- “I need to use a sick day.” = “I’m completely healthy and just don’t want to see ya’lls faces today.”
- “Thanks for that valuable input.” = “STFU.”
- “Let’s do lunch.” = “Wanna GTFO and talk shit about everyone in this meeting?”
- “What a creative concept.” = “How far up your ass did you reach for this idea?”
- “While I appreciate your feedback…” = “Yeah, well, that’s, like, your opinion, Margaret.”
- “I never thought about that…” = “No one asked you.”
- “What’s on your plate for today?” = “Get ready, I’m about to drop a bomb on your entire kitchen table.”
- “I am happy to spearhead this project.” = “Move over, bitch, let me drive.”
- “Allow me to process this.” = “Why are you talking to me before I’ve had my coffee?”

Like, follow, and share if you can relate. We don’t know what we’re doing. We’re a bizarre, babbling, bumbling band of baboons trying to figure it all out.

But we’re not alone.

Cheers.

Where Am I Going With This?

“Alright, Kait, where are you going with this?” I ask myself for the fourth time today. Adults usually have a plan. They’re normally organized. They know where they’re going.

The thing is, I don’t know where I’m going with this. I just start writing. It’s a lot like the piano for me, now. I took lessons for a dozen years. I was great. But then I went to college and the music wasn’t a priority anymore. It’s funny how we are somehow pushed to let go of the things that bring us joy when it’s time to become an adult. We don’t do it on purpose. We must learn to prioritize before we’re even ready, and sometimes things slide off the list. Take the piano for instance. Now, I can’t even play a fraction of what I used to. There are a couple songs I can still tickle out, but I can’t think about it. I can’t analyze it, because it’s not in my head. My brain has no idea how to play Fur Elise.

But my fingers remember.

If I don’t think about it

If I refuse to stop

I can still play Beethoven’s Fur Elise.

But the second I start to scrutinize the notes I’m hitting, the moment I focus too hard on the movement of my hands across black and white keys, I stumble. And I can’t start again.

Sometimes, writing is the same. My fingertips tap keys at a speed which leaves my mind in the dust. I start without an end in mind, and my hands take me forward. The words just pour out of me, and if I stop to think about where they’re coming from, I won’t be able to find them. They’ll disappear, evaporate from my tongue. They’ll be gone. It’s like an object in the dark that seems to disappear when you look directly at it. You can just make out it’s shape in your peripheral vision, but the instant you turn your head, it’s gone.

So, I keep writing. I let my fingers move as fast as they desire, and I watch the words appear on my screen with wonder.

Where am I going with this?

I have no idea.

But that’s half the fun.

And for My Next Trick: 10,000 Followers Will Fly Out My Ass

Maybe it’s time I join the circus.

At this point, I’m damn good at juggling. Even as I type, I have about seven things floating above my head that I’m going to need to catch and toss again in a few seconds. I’ll use my feet if I must. It’s fine. I’ve done it before. I’ll be a clown in the circus, juggling my day job, my writing career, my family, my friends, my finances, my marketing, my diet, a facemask, and whatever else the universe decides to throw into the mix. Maybe it will just tell me to dance as I juggle. Move to the beat, swallow a sword, and tie your hands behind your back.

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

I’ve written before about how adulting can be a lot. But I think the burden gets a little heavier when the thing you want most is about two inches beyond the reach of your fingertips. And within the space of two inches is about 10,000 sets of eyes.

“So how long have you been writing?” The agent asked me as I relaxed a little in my seat. I had just pitched my speculative fiction novel, Aftershock, over a Zoom meeting, and he asked me to email him the entire manuscript.

Talk about thunderstruck.

We still had 4 minutes left, and my tongue couldn’t pluck a single coherent sentence from my brain. Perhaps he could tell I was internally sputtering like an engine starved for gas, so he took the lead, and we both accepted our fate would be four minutes of small talk.

“I’ve been writing my whole life,” I told him. “I have a blog, #adulting. Light-hearted humor and relatable stories.”

The agent lit up. “What’s the URL?” He asked.

I gave it to him and explained the premise.

“How many followers do you have?”

I stumbled. I spent hours last night reciting a pitch for Aftershock. I wasn’t anywhere close to pitching a #adulting project.

“Only a handful,” I admitted. Twenty-five, to be exact. Whoopie. (Also, love you guys.)

“I just spoke to an editor yesterday about wanting to do a project similar to this,” the agent enlightened.

I think my left lung sprang a leak. It blew around my ribcage like a flying balloon, and for once in my life, I did not have words.

“I love the idea. But for something like that to work, you’d need about 10,000 followers. Then we could talk.”

Oh, is that all? Dude, I don’t even have enough friends for each finger on my hand!

I can’t remember what I said next, but I must have said something, and I hope to sweet baby Jesus it wasn’t dumb.

“I’ve seen it done in a month,” he continued. “If you really go for it and you do it right, you can get 10,000 followers in a month.”

Who, me?

I am a fumbling fool trying to figure out what I am supposed to be doing with my life, and here I am, literally 9,975 people away from getting something I’ve wanted since the 4^th grade.

Let me just place this red nose on my face and hop on a unicycle as I juggle.

And for my next trick? 10,000 followers will fly out my ass!

I’m about to start cranking some serious content, ya’ll. Because I want this more than anything in the world. Drop me a like and a follow. Share with your friends. Let’s turn this circus act into a dream and pull a book deal out of my hat.

Follow me on Facebook

Follow me on Instagram

Follow me on WordPress

Let’s do this.

Mail in a Pile on the Counter

Time is bizarre.

It’s something we can spend and save, make and waste, choose and lose. We can have too much, but mostly have too little. Time can fly, and time can also crawl. It moves systematically forward but never backward, and it never, ever stops.

The concept of time makes my brain hurt sometimes. How can an hour seem to sluggishly drag by, while the last 28 years whirled by me, knocked me over, yanked me onward in its wake? It is stumbling to consider time lost and wasted is something we can never get back. And in those quiet, most precious moments that snuggle beside our hearts and leave a lingering imprint, we want so badly for time to stop. We long for it to halt in its tracks, pump the brakes, freeze around us in those minutes we wish to last forever.

But it won’t.

Time will always continue on, and it will shove you along with it, because it never leaves anything behind.

As children, time is something that just can’t seem to run fast enough. We can’t wait to grow up. We can’t wait for that vacation next month. We can’t wait for dinner. We. Can’t. Wait. Then suddenly we stop running and wish we could back up. We want to turn around, go back, do it all over, take it slower. But we can’t. Time’s magnetic field keeps pulling us onward.

As an adult, I never have enough time. 24 hours is not sufficient. I cannot work full-time, cook, clean, work out, home improve, walk the dog, grocery shop, get gas, water my plants, weed, mow, catch up on Stranger Things, call my mother, see my friends, scroll Facebook, make all those Pinterest projects, fold laundry, practice piano, write my novel, and get at least 7 hours of sleep in 24 hours! IT’S NOT POSSIBLE.

I’ve come to the conclusion that adulting means making time. Adults learn to prioritize and learn to function with little sleep and learn how to balance all the little things in life that pile up (like that massive pile of mail on my counter that I have no intention of going through any time soon). We have to make time and prioritize. We have to. Because time stops for no one. Prioritizing, like adulting in general, takes practice. Sometimes we’ll let things slip. Like the mail. Or the weeds. Sometimes even friends.

It seems more difficult to maintain friendships now, especially when we have different priorities, incomes, lifestyles, careers, schedules, and locations. It used to be so effortless. Texting and Facebooking daily came so naturally and we had all the time in the world to meet up for spur-of-the-moment Hobby Lobby extravaganzas. Now, suddenly, my evenings are packed with the above list while I dump extra energy into a new job and I save whatever I have left for the struggle to launch a writing career. We’ve all got lists like this. We all have our shit and sometimes it’s not fun. But it’s part of adulting and we make it work.

Watching those around me grow and blossom into adults over time (even if they feel like they’re faking it sometimes) has been fascinating. I’m an observer. That is, I watch people. While the greatest obstacle for me is to put in a syllable in casual conversation, watching it all happen comes naturally. I watch the way their lips move as they talk, or the habitual gestures they use as they tell a story. The way they smile can be worth more than the words they utter. Perhaps most interesting of all is the speaker’s eyes. It’s the level of intensity swirling within them that really tells the story. An observer soaks in every word and detail, storing it away. I don’t only learn about the speaker; I learn about the entire human race.

I’ve watched many different people from different backgrounds and with different aspirations develop into adults and become parents. In fact, my husband and I are one of the only couples within my friend group without children. I think there’s an irony here, because everyone always thought I’d be first. I’ve always wanted a whole pack of babies, my own baseball team to fill the rooms of this house. As I observe everyone around me, I think maybe I should be feeling like I’m running out of time, like there’s this biological clock slowly ticking away as the world continues to spin.

But I don’t.

For the first time in my adult life, I feel like I have all the time in the world. Or, maybe I feel like I simply don’t have the time to take that leap yet. I have time, I don’t have time, who knows? Like I said, the concept of time makes my brain hurt.

Adulting doesn’t mean becoming a parent. I will, one day, when I can figure out how to adjust all those priorities and fit my large to-do list into 24 hours. But in the meantime, I will fluidly move with time, spin with the earth, observe the beautiful transitions around me, and leave the mail in a pile on the counter.

This is Why I’m Not Allowed Outside

I’m listening to the way my heels click confidently against the tile as I walk, and I wave casually at the receptionist before pushing through the double doors leading to the café at work.

Oh, God, someone I don’t really know is walking my way.

I keep walking, a little slower now, shifting my eyes from the floor to the space in front of me to the face of the man approaching me and back again.

Do I smile?

He’s getting closer.

Do I say hi?

Shit, he’s right here.

Maybe I don’t even look at him.

“Hi,” he says as our paths cross.
I sputter. “Good, you?”

Dammit.

That’s going to haunt me at 3 AM for the next 5 years.

We all go through an awkward stage growing up. Maybe it’s a bad hairdo. and you have family photos showcasing that time you tried to cut your own bangs. It could be a poor fashion choice, and you’re looking back at those red pleather pants you just had to have in the 90’s. Perhaps it’s a combination of the two, and your high school yearbook forever has you in a powder-blue suit with a big-ass afro. (cough…Dad…cough…)

Thankfully, we all seem to grow out of that obligatory awkward stage and eventually burn all photographic evidence. But there are some forms of awkwardness we never really expel, even as we pretend to be semi-functioning adults. It stays with us, like an annoying extension of ourselves that just won’t take a hint and leave. We might move on from the chubby stage and our bangs might grow back, but we can never change the fact that when the movie ticket girl at the cinema told us to enjoy the show, we said, “You, too!”

We have to interact with way too many adults on a day-to-day basis. Sometimes I wish I could call in sick simply because it’s too peopley out there. Names and faces can be so difficult to keep straight, especially when you work for a company that has many traveling employees. I am constantly seeing new faces that aren’t actually new, and it’s the source of so many awkward moments.
I enter the meeting with a laptop tucked under my arm and I close the door behind me. A man with a purple tie already sits at the table with a notepad and pencil.
“Hi, I’m Kaitlin,” I introduce, reaching to shake his hand.
“Yes, we’ve met, a few times,” he says, chuckling.

Dammit.

Lock me up. I shouldn’t be allowed outside.

Speaking of shaking hands, this is a pretty common social phenomenon. But I can’t be the only person who panics about this when meeting someone new. How am I supposed to know if you’re a handshaker, a fist bumper, or, God forbid, a hugger? Too many times have I gone in for the normal white girl handclasp only to be met with a closed fist, or to suddenly be engaged in some awkward grip-changing secret handshake that I feel like I’m supposed to know, but don’t. Should I shake again when I say goodbye? And damned if we don’t awkwardly walk in the same direction after saying bye, and I must stop and tie my shoe to put some reasonable distance between us.

Only to realize I’m not wearing laces today.

Work is not the only place we frequently experience awkward moments. A few years back, they changed the words to Catholic mass. Suddenly it wasn’t “And also with you,” but rather “And with your spirit.”
Last week:
Priest: The Lord be with you.
Everyone else: And with your spirit.
Me: AND ALSO WITH YOU!
And now people think I haven’t stepped foot in mass for ten years.

Awkward.

Let’s just skip over the fact that I thought the phrase “peace be with you” was “pleased to be with you” until I was eight.

In today’s world, it’s damn near impossible to get lost. In the age of Google Maps and even GPS, there really isn’t an excuse. In fact, it’s impressive if you manage to get lost. But what are the flippin’ odds the driveway I decide to use as a turn-around belongs to the car right behind me?! Here I am, awkwardly waving at you as I back out of your driveway. Wonderful. And people don’t really talk to each other anymore, so we don’t ask for directions…but if for some reason I have to, and you start using crazy words like “north” and “east…”

I’m fucked.

In psychology, they call the phenomenon in which people think they’re noticed way more than they actually are the “spotlight effect.” OF COURSE we find ourselves infinitely more awkward than anyone else ever notices. That guy I awkwardly greeted at work is not up late thinking about how awkward I am.

He’s up late thinking about how awkward he is!

Adults cry, too, you know.

You feel furthest from a functioning adult when you find yourself hiding away in the bathroom of DeVos Place in downtown Grand Rapids bawling your eyes out.

Let’s back up to how I ended up in that bathroom stall, pathetically watching the mascara run down my face in the mirror.

It’s funny how things sort of

tumble

into place

when it was never a part of the plan.

Somehow, I survived my first year of teaching. And the thought of returning in the Fall was almost nauseating.

I remember standing in the back lawn of the high school as kids hurriedly and excitedly boarded the busses for the final time that year. I forced a smile and waved at those I knew (but didn’t really like).
“One year down…. 30 to go…” and I clenched my fists to avoid groaning out loud. “It’s going to get better, right?”

“right?”

“RIGHT?!”

I held up send-off and well-wishes signs with the other teachers and cheered as the buses made a grand exit. My sign said “Read! :)”. But really, I wanted it to say “GTFO!”

I wasn’t a social butterfly with the other teachers, so I walked back to my room alone once silence flooded the school grounds and there was only the distant diesel hum of the buses from the next street over.
I counted the dusty steps as I ascended to the second floor, running my hand over the railing, my mind desperately searching my soul for an ounce of excitement about the career I chose.

There wasn’t any.

“Shit.”

I stood in the center of my room, taking in all the debris scattered across the floor and the awful scent of pubescent adolescents. At least I had all my Spanish 1 lesson plans… next year would be significantly less time consuming.

I plopped into my chair and fired up my Gmail.

An email from the head of the foreign language department. Subject: 2015-Next Year’s Assignments.

Huh?

I opened it.

Amy – Spanish 1

Ginger- Spanish 3 & 4

Kaitlin- Spanish 2.

Dammit.

Spanish 2? You’ve got to be kidding me.

More lesson planning. And worse? The same assholes in class.

I could have pulled my hair out.

I can’t do this….

Negative self-talk never got anyone anywhere, but I was feeling so utterly defeated and burnt out… after year one. How do people do this their whole lives?
To mask my frustrations and busy my mind, I hopped onto Glassdoor to search for paying summer internships to earn some experience toward my master’s degree. That was my only way out. Two years of studying while working full-time. Hard work. #adulting.

Fate, luck, whatever, I found myself working the summer for a company called NHA. I would work in their IT department making course revisions for their internal E-learning modules.

It was temporary.

Until I met Cindy.

Here’s where the fate comes in.

Cindy’s associate resigned the same day Cindy and I met.

That’s just too spooky to be coincidence.

Half-way through my internship with NHA, I was assigned a project for the Director of Special Education for the entire organization (84 charter schools across 9 states at the time). She needed 13 engaging e-learning modules created from a horrible lawyer presentation about Section 504, and that was up to me.

I walked into an empty conference room five minutes before our meeting. I didn’t know it yet, but Cindy was almost always late. I took a seat on the far side of the table and worked to hook my laptop up to the TV display at the end of the table.

She came in like wind, almost silently and quickly, seamlessly and confidently. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, blonde hair cut short with brilliant blue eyes. She wore an expensive orange blazer over a floral blouse. She sat in the chair adjacent to me with perfect poster, and I couldn’t help but notice her long pale pink nails and a massive marquise-shaped wedding diamond on her left finger. She smiled at me before confidently extending a hand across the table for me to take.

She introduced herself with pride. I took her hand and consciously shook it firmly. I gave her my name, forcing a smile to hide my nerves.

“So nice to meet you.” Cindy opened her laptop and set her iPhone aside. It was far enough from her to not be rude, yet close enough to remain in her peripheral vision, in case she was to get an imperative call or message.

This lady is important.

“How long have you been with us?” She asked, making small talk as I prepared to begin.

“Just over a month,” I responded, looking up at her. She was gazing right into my eyes fearlessly. Suddenly a wave of intimidation swept over me. What was I doing?

“And how long will you be with us?”

“Until the end of the summer. I’m a teacher,” I explained.

“Wonderful! In one of our NHA schools?”

“No,” I admitted, breaking eye contact to glance at my screen. “Public school.” I told her I taught Spanish.

“You’re bilingual! That’s amazing. Spanish sure comes in handy. My husband and I run an orphanage in Mexico. Do you like it? Teaching?”

There was something about her staring at me in that moment that told me it was okay to tell her the truth. “No.”

She nodded. “Shall we begin?”

I kicked off the meeting, pitching my ideas to her, showing her all the “fancy” things I had learned PowerPoint can do that summer.

I’ve always been a decent public speaker, ushering my “teacher” voice from somewhere deep within. But something about Cindy made me a little nervous that day. Maybe it was her stature, maybe her demeanor, maybe her title and reputation. Regardless, I was nervous as hell running a meeting with her. I tried my hardest to seem professional, but still felt like a child playing dress-up.

As I concluded, Cindy didn’t say much, but she seemed satisfied.

“I’m excited,” she finally said after processing a moment. “This has been a long time in the making, and I am so pleased to see these 13 learning modules are going to come to life.”

I blushed and began packing my things. “I can get started right away, and perhaps we can have weekly touch-bases for you to review the content and—”

“Are you looking for a job?” Cindy cut me off.

“I’m sorry?” I was caught off-guard… I would soon learn Cindy had a special way of doing that to me.

“Are you looking for a job?” She repeated, a slight smile playing across her thin pink lips.

“Um,” I hadn’t given it too much thought—I didn’t want to let myself believe this position at NHA could turn into anything permanent, granting me escape from the classroom much earlier than anticipated. “I mean,” I stammered, suddenly not sounding so professional nor confident. “I am always looking,” I finally spit out, though I instantly wanted to facepalm. I resisted. “Yeah…if I found something I could do and that paid well enough…”

“My girl just resigned.”

…what just happened?

Cindy understood my expression and continued. “Right before I walked in here. And I just love her, she does such a great job. But it really blindsided me! I am so sad she is leaving in two weeks.”

Fate?

Fate.

“So, there’s an opening,” Cindy continued as she started to pack her things. “Think about it, Kaitlin. Maybe we can meet again to discuss the job further. Especially if you’re not all that thrilled with teaching.” And at that, she left, just as swiftly as she had come in.

What just HAPPENED?

She gave me a shot. She even helped me write my letter of resignation to the school. Resigning from a job isn’t easy. Writing a letter to the principal and superintendent to announce you’ve basically found something better and doing it in a pleasant and professional way is certainly #adulting.

There was something about her the moment I met her, and it went deeper than the first impression of intimidation followed by “I think I like this human.”

“I think I connect with this human.”

Cindy, Director of Special Education.

AKA badass.

I often joked that I was in love with my boss and would marry her if I could. I was just so enamored by everything she did and could do. She was, in my opinion and perception, the perfect adult. She passionately ran an entire special education program for 84 charter schools across the United States. She never backed down for what she believed in, and by golly your fancy law degree scares her not. She built an orphanage in Mexico with her husband and to this day gives those kids the life they all deserve.

She is a mother and a grandmother. She has history. She is the image of professionalism and still manages to maintain a sense of humor. She cared about her employees as people.

She cared about me.

Once I finally completed my master’s degree (#adulting!!!!!), the thought of searching for my next growth opportunity played in the back of my mind. I searched casually for jobs, more the “dream come true” type. Just in case. But I loved my job. I loved working for Cindy. We were the dream team, man! I was so good with her, I could predict what she needed before she even asked for it. I understood her brain and I respected the hell out of her.

The thought of leaving Cindy and the Special Education Team I came to love like family sort of made me want to barf. So, I never looked for my next career all that hard. I just knew someday, somehow, I would need to spread my wings. Like we all must at some point… that inevitable leap of faith one must take before the comfort seeps too deep. But for the time being, my connection with Cindy, the Team, and NHA’s mission was enough for me.

Cindy’s resignation two years into our adventure altered my entire reality.

We were sitting in a small room at DeVos Place in Grand Rapids. Leadership Summit was the biggest event of the year for the organization, and the team was preparing Cindy for her big presentation.

Looking back… there were signs. She glanced at her phone frequently that morning…more frequently than usual. She was unusually worried about the whereabouts of her boss…And there was an awkwardly placed slide in her presentation entitled

“personal professional announcement”.

In a way, I wonder if she left that slide in there as a purposeful foreshadowing… just for me… as I edited her presentation for her.

But I didn’t pick up on it.

Not then.

Not until she sighed at the end of her practice presentation.

And her boss stepped into the room.

Then I knew.

“I need… to make an announcement…” she started.

Shit.

“This is probably the hardest professional decision I’ve ever made.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She teared up. “I have made the decision…”

Shit!

“…to leave NHA.”

Dammit.

I shattered.

I felt as though something was being stolen from me…but unsure what that was. My entire job stood before me announcing her resignation. My emotional attachment to her burned behind my eyes and I bit my lip, struggling to keep my shit together.

I couldn’t.
She was my professional everything.

“I need to seek greater work-life balance in my life. I can’t keep living the way I’m living… I can’t keep working this many hours and drowning in my work. I need to be with my grandkids… I need to be a part of my family’s life. I’ve accepted a position with Grand Valley State University as a professor of Educational Leadership.

I cried. I wasn’t the only one. The entire room was a storm of saltwater.

“No,” Cindy demanded between her own tears. “You all have to keep going. We have worked too fucking hard to go back now!” She fired up, red-faced, passionate, fists clenching. I would expect nothing less of her. “We have helped so many kids. I have been so blessed to work with such a fine group of professionals in it for all the right reasons.”

And I can’t remember the rest.

I can only remember the relentless tears rolling down my cheeks, and then….

then the inexplicable sudden wave of cold fear.

Like being slapped in the face with an ice block.

What does this mean for me?

What happens to me?

What about me?

Me, me, me, me, ME, MEEEEEEH!

I had selfish feelings as I drowned in emotional silence. I didn’t feel much like an adult. An adult would be able to keep her shit together and stand up and applaud Cindy’s accomplishments and be happy for her.

And I was happy for her.

Somewhere deep, deep,

deeeeeep

down.

All of our experiences were flashing before my eyes, from the time I picked her up off the side of the road because her husband was too late to take her all the way to work, to the time she handed me her personal credit card and told me to go buy myself a pair of shorts that fit because I lost so much weight. There was so much more between us than just a boss-assistant relationship. And now I was faced with losing that connection, and just plain couldn’t freaking handle it.

We adjourned the meeting, and everyone rushed to hug her and congratulate her. I hung back and waited a moment, fighting for some composure, still struggling to understand why I felt the way I felt.

“I’m so pissed at you!” I said to Cindy as I embraced her. We cried together a moment, and I didn’t want to let her go. “But I really am happy for you,” I whispered.

I had a complete meltdown in the DeVos bathroom shortly after that moment.

And was caught.
“She’s my entire job,” I tried to explain.
So pathetic.
I stood beside Cindy just hours later as her audience filed in for the big presentation. I worked her laptop for her, preparing the presentation and ensuring all audio settings were perfect. I watched Cindy out of the corner of my eye with vague fascination. What must be going through her head? She was about to announce her resignation to over 100 people in person.

“Doing okay?” I asked, touching her arm.

“Oh yeah,” she said, forcing a smile across her face. “And you?”

“Not really,” I said honestly, also forcing a smile.

“You’re funny,” she said. She said this to me often.

“But it’s true,” I admitted.

“I know.”

Did she, though?

“You know,” she began, staring off into space. For a moment, I thought shit was about to get philosophical. “I forgot to wear a slip under my dress.”

I paused a moment to study her before laughing. She wore the same floral dress she had worn to my wedding a year prior.

“Well,” I offered, “the only one who knows that is you. …And me. Now I know. Totally judging you.”

She giggled with me and brushed her blonde hair behind her ear. “Okay. Ready?”

“Always.”

She was flawless. And when she announced her resignation to the entire room, I felt my emotions spiraling out all over again. The crowd gave her a standing ovation as she signed off, and she cried.

It’s amazing what a little liquid courage will do for you. I sat at the team dinner later that evening, my head slightly spinning. The bar tender asked what I was having.

“Whatever can take away the devastation of my boss’s resignation,” I said.

Still not really sure what he gave me.

“I’m gonna give a speech,” I thought to myself half-drunkenly somewhere after two drinks and before the arrival of the dinner plates (as a rule, an adult should never have two drinks before eating… especially at a corporate event. To think I would have learned my lesson at this point… but a corporate Christmas party a few years later sure knocked me on my ass. Literally.) I awkwardly stood, taking my beer and a knife in my hand.

I clinked my glass with the knife at the head of the long outdoor table for attention. Cindy sat at the head just beside where I stood.

“We need to acknowledge the woman of the hour,” I began, gripping my beer glass tighter to hide the shaking in my fingers. Cindy reached up and took the knife from my other hand, laughing and joking about fearing for her life.

“Don’t worry, I’m already passed the anger stage in the stages of grief!” I razzed. “I am so honored to be standing here with a team of amazing people. And we can all agree the most amazing of us all is Cindy.” There was a round of applause in agreement, and I realized other tables around us were now silent and listening to what I was saying. “We are so happy for you. We have this awkward mixture of excitement and devastation that makes us all want to barf, but we are happy for you.” I paused as the team laughed, and I relaxed a little. “Really, though, I have one question for you… Are you breaking up with me?” The team laughed again, Cindy too, and she shook her head. “Never!” she said. I smiled.

“You are on a new adventure and you will be terribly missed.” I looked up to address the team. “So, if you all are, like me, #teamshinsky4life, raise your glass! Cheers, Cindy!” And glasses clinked. I bent down and air-kissed Cindy’s cheek saying, “I love you.”

And I meant it.

I resigned two weeks later.

I told everyone, myself included, that my resignation wasn’t related to Cindy’s departure. But part of adulting is being honest with yourself. And to be honest, I did leave in part because Cindy resigned. It’s true I needed to grow and move up and really start my career… you cannot remain in an associate position if you want to be a leader… but I didn’t have any desire to go to that office every day if Cindy wasn’t going to be in it.

Don’t get me wrong– Cindy wasn’t the only one I cared about at that office. I made some lifelong friends there. But between the hours of eight and five Monday through Friday, Cindy was my entire world. And if my entire world was going to shift, I might as well be moving up and out of it.

Loving and respecting another adult for what she’s done and how she handles herself is part of #adulting. Dealing with the hurt of my mentor moving on and making the decision to move on myself was #adulting. As pathetically devastated as I was, this was a huge growth moment for me and pushed me toward success.

Don’t ever feel pathetic…the way I felt pathetic… when feeling emotion. It’s okay. You’re not the only one. Emotion is this annoying tag-along to our humanity, and it’s not always convenient and it is not always simple. But it’s always there, this glistening apparition trudging at our sides, something we always feel but can never touch. We drag it everywhere and we learn to cope, even when we don’t want to. Cope the best way you can, but don’t seal it up. Feel it, let it flow through your veins and remind yourself this is who you are, and this is okay to feel.

To this day I still rely on Cindy for advice and comfort. Perhaps I use her as a sort of “crutch”, a small piece of comfort zone to retreat to… perhaps it would be more #adulting to let her go completely.

But I can’t.

She was key in my adult development, and I can’t picture life without her in it.

“I’m not sure that I love it as much as I loved NHA,” I wrote in an email to Cindy several weeks later, after we both moved on and began our new jobs. “But I am going to focus on moving up and being successful. I am going to focus on being the ‘Cindy’ to a team like ours one day.”

Cindy replied almost instantly. “You want to be the ‘Kaitlin’ to the team. Not me. You will pave your own way. You are strong. You are woman!”

Connect with a “Cindy”. Find someone who will always encourage you and push you forward as an adult and as a professional. Find your mentor. Find someone to coach you in adult situations when you are lost in the dark. Find someone.

A parent.

A sibling.

A supervisor.

All of these and more.

#adulting doesn’t mean going at it alone.