Here's the plan

Early in my career, I was a writer and video editor. Then one day, I glanced around at the women I looked up to and I panicked. At that time, these were mostly women traveling the world as National Geographic reporters, photographers, and explorers. These women had insatiable curiosities. They embraced risk. They looked J-Crew-catalog-sexy in a pair of baggy cargo pants. But 90% of the time they were unmarried, divorced, or never had children. There’s nothing wrong with this. And I’m not saying every female reporter at Nat Geo or otherwise fits that profile. But to an impressionable (and narrow-minded) twenty-two year old with big dreams of both bylines and romance, I couldn’t help but see the pattern, universalize it, and then mope about my future prospects.

I started making lists, weighing options, creating five-year-plans. If being the type of writer I wanted to be back then meant a higher likelihood of being single and childless at 32 (my scary age), then I would need a different plan. I packed up my desk and headed West.

In Colorado and California, I spent six years teaching high school English and leading multi-week backpacking trips. Teaching was something I had always wanted to try, and I (naively) assumed that as a teacher I would have an easier work/life balance. I could have a career and become a mom. That was the plan, at least.

Adventure pressed on through leading trips, but writing took a backseat. Small projects popped up here and there during my Master’s degree, but for the most part, my voice atrophied. All my creative energy went to my lesson plans and my students. I enjoyed the work. I was good at it (most of the time). And importantly, I found a boyfriend. We moved in together. Life was on track.

I started teaching in August 2016, three-months before the Presidential election. On the first Sunday of November that year, I headed into the Utah canyons with two other instructors and twelve students on a backpacking trip. Two and half weeks later, we emerged from the backcountry into a completely different world than the one we left behind.

From then on the English classroom, a notoriously personal and political space, became a many-headed monster: more free-speech; no hate speech; you’re pushing an agenda; you’re not being empathetic enough; you’re brainwashing my kid; you’re making Shakespeare too feminist; you’re not teaching enough female authors; the students can’t write; the students should write in their own vernacular; the students should write fewer essays; the student should write more essay, but shorter; the students don’t know how to think; we’re not preparing them for jobs; we’re focused too much on jobs and not enough on critical thinking; more technology in the classroom, but please, fewer screens; don’t assign too much homework; the parents are worried the students aren’t reading enough; grade faster; grading is ruining learning; shorter classes today, please adjust accordingly. Then Covid started to spread.

Like many teachers, I left the classroom burnt-out and clinically depressed post-pandemic. I was also single again and approaching 30. Life was way off track.

After fifteen months of scraping myself back together, I landed a job that doubled my salary for half the hours — sales at a tech company.

Surprisingly, I enjoy the work. It’s competitive, dynamic, and requires a healthy amount of curiosity in order to do the job well. But mostly, I love how unattached to it I am. A job, I’ve learned, is not a personality, not even a big part of your identity if you don’t want it to be. The simplicity is refreshing.

With my job being just a job, space opened. Literal space, yes: I had time and resources for friends and family and travel. But more importantly, a creative and spiritual space opened. At night, I started writing. Writing, I lost track of time. The longer I wrote, the more I wanted to share it. I’m a sucker for an audience.

So I’m here to share with you what I am reading and observing and being moved by; ideas I’m considering and stories that make me laugh; strong opinions, loosely held; curious and funny things; a bit of what life is like in San Francisco these days; and the lessons I am painfully learning along the way.

Are you in? Admittedly, I’m a tad nervous. I feel like the chatty girl at a dinner party, halfway through a story and suddenly keenly aware that the room is either listening with rapt attention or trapped in a bemused silence, wondering: “when will this girl shut up?” But I’m here now, already committed, and I suppose there’s nothing left to do but hope I can spin a good enough tale that you decide to invite me back into your inbox.