If I told you I was taking time off from working because I had an illness or an injury, you wouldn’t think twice. You’d get all of the details because your survival brain would want to ensure you didn’t suffer the same fate and then you’d likely volunteer to bring me food or offer to help out in some way…as we all do when someone is sick. And the prevalence of sick seems to be so extreme today. Growing up with a sick mom in the 90’s I felt like we were very much the exception. Today, I feel like almost everyone you meet has some sort of experience with this first or at least second degree.
If I told you I was taking time off from working because I hit the lottery or came into a windfall of money, you wouldn’t think twice. It’s all about some winning number isn’t it? The goal of financial freedom is absolutely an acceptable reason to step out of the game.
If I told you I was taking time off to disassemble my entire set of belief systems and heal years of unaddressed trauma to realign my life in a way that prevents me from getting sick(er), you’d probably just immediately exit the conversation and tell your sister or your mom or your partner that I’m having a mid-life crisis or a manic episode.
There’s no good roadmap for this and it’s not mainstream and I honestly have not found many good examples to emulate myself, but my gut and my instincts are screaming at me to carve this path. Crying on the way to work and wishing away my healthiest and best years to get to an age that retirement is accepted while I run my nervous system into the ground, over medicate, over analyze, over schedule, and under parent is not the way. Managing my life on the rhythm of the meetings at work or the priorities of the business instead of by my actual body’s cycle, my life stage, and the seasons is insane. Actually insane. Determining my success by number and quality of comments or likes on social media or what summary of accomplishments and impressive titles I can rattle off when meeting some new Chad at the country club instead of how I actually feel each day or being clear on what excites me and brings me joy is actually insane.
Filling my schedule to the brim to prove something indeterminate to someone invisible that sounds like productivity or status or net worth or legacy is actually insane. Living a performance of a life under the gaslighting of you can do it all while teaching my kids the tips and tricks for them to do the same while also projecting my unhealed childhood wounds onto them and using their lives as do overs for my lessons instead of setting an example of what life could be and encouraging them to become the best versions of themselves through example is insane. All while hiding my panic attacks in the closet.
Trading my time for money. Trading my individuality for a career. Dismissing my true talents for a curated version of me built to feed the system and scratch the itches of mediocre white men with severe daddy issues and too much audacity. How bout a fuck no. Not anymore. Not without finding me. I was lost in that sea, scooped up and molded for profit. My trauma responses turned into skills and qualifications. My suffering, your new shiny tool.
Follow the middle aged women. They’re waking up. They’re spread too thin, they’re hanging on by a thread, and they’re starting to find their way out.
“Follow the middle aged women.” Fuck yes! 💗