I am soon going to take a leap and quit my job as a hospice nurse, without a new job lined up, despite the insane cost of COBRA, with two young kids and an ex-spouse who has seen this impulse before and will wonder how I’ll pay my share of private school costs.
We all feel trapped at times. All of us uncertain and questioning. All of us wonder if the grass is greener. But some of us know with absolute conviction that we're acting a part in the wrong movie. I've struggled with all of these questions for a very long time. Sought to seek changes. Felt boxed in at every turn. Kept doing what I know how to do as a nurse. But it's time. I'm giving myself a year to see what I can do. And I’ve got a lot of ideas. A lot. Surely I’m not the only one who wonders how the fuck millennials make money as influencers, posting photos of themselves topless, splashing in crystal clear Caribbean waters. I don’t look so great topless anymore because my children nursed my size Ds into size Bs. Plus, The Atlantic tells me that the glories of Instagram are less en-vogue these days anyway. Regardless, my current gig can’t be the only way to make a dime. Yes, I've done a budget complete with color-coded pie charts. I know how much I spend on ice hockey gear and pirate booty. I’m a grown woman who has never paid my mortgage or my credit card bill late. I am well aware of the perks of having a very well-figured salary and every day I try to convince myself that the parts of the job that make me stark raving mad are worth it. But they aren’t. Because, more than anything else, this chapter is over. Like a marriage that you know can’t be revived. The EMTs keep breaking ribs, hoping for a gasp of air, but the creature is dead.
I can't plan everything down to the enth degree. I’ve overthought every decision and every option and every limitation for the last decade. I’m done. I have to take a risk and dive in. And as irresponsible as it may seem to some, I need to make the space to explore. I can’t just sign up for the next nursing gig to ensure I can keep up with the costs. My costs could go way down without anyone getting hurt. My kids wear sneakers down to the nubs as it is. But hear me out…there is really no space to redefine your stroke when you’re caring for the dying. If I can take the risk, walk beyond the sand bar, and swim forward with strong arms, clear eyes and an open heart, I may very well find the water is perfect.
I don’t have a clear destination and I’ve very little idea of what will unfold. I may be working at the post office and endorsing sex toy brands on this blog for all I know. But I will take some risks and remember how to swim. Of this I am certain.