It was supposed to be my #workfree2020. Three years before, I decided to take the year off. I thought about all of many options on how to spend my self-paid sabbatical. It included selling my car, packing up or subletting our condo and exploring more of the world. But a number of factors really limited those options. Setting aside the fact that I originally posted this on March 14, 2020 at 1:14 am and there would be a global lockdown in two days, which would eliminate the majority of my options, the main factor was my job. I was so overworked that I had no time to think about what I was going to do on my year off. I was so tired that I never had a chance to plan anything. I was mentally and emotionally depleted. Even though I had supportive people around me, I felt helpless and alone. I felt bitter that I worked so hard and did not feel like anyone acknowledged or even cared that I busted my ass, to my own detriment. The worst part was that once I packed up my office and walked out the door, I was left with nothing but quality time with myself and those feelings. Over fried pickles and alcoholic bevies, wise friends/respected colleagues warned me about the time it might take to decompress. I certainly needed the time and some welcomed distractions from the burnout that I suffered and from the world being thrown into collective panic, anxiety and paranoia, grasping desperately at anything that would help make sense of our current reality.
At the time, this was supposed to be one way for me to get back to creativity. This was supposed to be a way to give life to ideas and emotions deeply rooted in my being. While I shared these ideas and emotions with very few people, I might be ready to expand.
In the meantime, let’s start with saying hello.