Go ahead. Quit that job. Sell your house. Move. I did. I always have, now that I think about it.
I’ve gotten a reputation. I didn’t mean to. It isn’t like I set out to take a bunch of sharp left turns. It just happened that way. I’m actually a pretty straight-forward gal. I pushed for the good grades. Studied like hell. Worked my ass off. Got the promotion. I am the “YES” woman. The fixer. The get-’er-done-no-matter-what Captain Dependable. That’s me.
To be this person, I‘ve made sacrifices along the way. I forwent nights out, vacations, trips with friends and, as I got older, had a shorter maternity leave. I certainly missed time with my (then) babies, now (gulp) kid and a teenager… I was committed to my career. I spent 7 years with one company and 9 with the next. I wouldn’t exactly call that flaky.
About a year ago, though, some things happened that brought my priorities into even sharper focus. Health stuff for a beloved family member. Chronic stress at work. Things like that. And I quit. I quit my secure, interesting job surrounded by smart people — the job that had me travel the world and make lifelong connections — to follow my heart and do my own thing.
This wasn’t the first go. My husband and I’d done something like it before when we ran headfirst into opportunity to go to Europe for a couple of years. It was awesome. And awful. And it bonded our family. We traveled and I got a Masters in International Business by virtue of living it. It was one of the hardest and most rewarding experiences of my life. And when it was time, we came back. No regrets.
In looking back (prior to the lengthy, stable-career-and-two-babies chapter) I’ve always embraced new experiences. Wacky jobs. Crazy moves. I have been exhilarated and awakened by mixing it up. Changes that are uncomfortable for some others — bring me life. I’ve left a small but devoted crowd of puzzled faces in my wake on several occasions.
And now that I’m really living a different life, I mean really living it, I’m reflecting back and realize this has always been in my DNA. Perhaps its the Alaskan in me — my family always valued exploration and forging your own course. As kids, my sisters, cousins and I were regaled with stories of our great grand-parents’ journeys to Alaska and the setting up of their lives there. This stuff was REVERED in my house. I wrote a thesis paper on it in college, for God’s sake.
My mother was raised in Washington and grew into a sorority girl in Seattle. My dad was a BMOC and they fell in love. She followed him to Alaska — before it was a state, mind you — and raised a family there. She could have done anything. She was smart and pretty. She could have had New York. She could have had Paris. She definitely could have had career. She chose this: my dad and Alaska. I can’t ask her about it because she died in 1991 but I know enough about her to know she, too, sought the new and different. Embraced change.
So it’s been there all along, I guess. The need to explore and grow. And yes, it is uncomfortable. And people look at you sideways wondering why and (let’s be honest) what’s wrong with you. Once, someone even suggested that I’m running away from something…
I’m not. I’m running toward something. Every day. And once I get there, I glance at the map and choose a new destination.