Remembering My Younger Self
Many, many years ago, at the ripe old age of 29, I had an enviable job in publishing and a marriage that was falling apart. Well, falling apart implies that it was whole at one point. And to be honest, it never was.
I got married at 21 not out of love, but fear. Fear that I’d end up alone. Fear that I’d graduate from college and have to make a life by myself. And the debilitating fear that whispers to all of us more than we realize, “What if I’m not lovable? What if I’m not enough?”
I can tell you with authority, it’s not a good sign when you walk down the aisle considering your options for eventual divorce.
A few years later, it seemed there were cracks in the foundation of the marriage. But on closer inspection, I realized there was no foundation. Really, nothing solid at all.
At the same time, my enviable publishing job—as an associate book editor for Better Homes and Gardens crafts books—started to feel as confining as my marriage. The job was a plum and had given me some of the best training as a writer you can ever have. I sometimes had to whittle down the directions for making a complicated quilt or woodworking project to 250 words, a feat of logic and concise writing that I lean on 40 years later.
But I’d done a little freelance writing on the side. Educational materials, marketing newsletters, technical manuals. I didn’t necessarily want to write the Great American Novel—yet. But I wanted some control. I wanted to get up each morning excited about something new and different from the day before. I knew my marriage was going to end soon, but I wasn’t quite ready to move out.
I was ready, though, to take a chance on myself as a writer. And so I quit my plum job.
Really, it all happened in about 24 hours.
My frustration at work hit a new high one day, so I came home, stood in front of my soon-to-be ex-husband, and said these words: “I’m going to go into work tomorrow and quit.”
He was not pleased.
And I didn’t care.
It was probably the first time in years that I’d proclaimed what I wanted without fretting over what others might think. In that moment, I stood strong and clear, creating my own future.
That evening, I wrote up a rudimentary business plan for my life as a freelance writer. I listed what my expenses would be and how much income I’d need to generate when I was soon on my own.
As I typed, I felt like a force beyond me was straightening my spine. I wrote not only a plan for my business, but for my life day by day. I would get up and take a long walk through the neighborhood each morning instead of driving to the office. I’d stop by the local bakery rather than inhaling an office-full of smoke (yes, in those days, smoke wafted cubicle to cubicle, and I came home at night smelling and feeling like I’d smoked an entire pack of Marlboros).
I’d sit outside on beautiful days with a pad of paper, crafting stories, instead of being stuck inside. I’d have lunch with friends or family without feeling guilty if I lingered longer than an hour. And most of all, I’d steer my own boat in my career to be the writer I knew I could be.
Hey, I already had a week’s worth of freelance work lined up. And here’s the thing—I had no doubt I would succeed.
None.
When I’d walked down the aisle to get married, I’d felt trapped and scared.
When I wrote up my plan, I felt free and scared.
But this scared was different. This was the scared of exhilaration, of clarity, of knowing you’re packing for a major trip filled with unknowns, but you can’t wait to get on the plane.
The next day, I went into work and quit my job.
Done.
Two weeks later, I started my new life at home with a Kaypro computer (have fun Googling this relic with its metal case and 9-inch screen!) and classified ads that I pored over every day to find new freelance jobs that paid actual money.
A year later, I was divorced, living in my own apartment, traveling the country to visit colleges and write their high-gloss marketing materials. This meant interviewing college presidents and faculty and students—work that I loved.
I remember one June morning, meeting with a graphic designer in his Arts and Crafts living room, no cubicles in sight. I sipped a cup of tea. We talked about words and images and type fonts and nerded out on the creativity.
The June light flowed through the windows and onto the hardwood floors, and I sent up a prayer of thanksgiving that this was my life. Beauty. Freedom. Peace of mind. Exhilaration. Gratitude.
I’d done it.
And I’ve never looked back.
So here’s the thing. We hear a lot these days about what we’d go back and tell our younger self. “Keep going, it will get better. You are more than you know. Everything will work out.”
But I do the opposite. When I have doubts or second-guess my decisions, I call on my inner 29-year-old for a dose of her clarity and strength. She reminds me: Take a chance. You can do it. Don’t settle for less than joy.
If she hadn’t felt trapped, she wouldn’t have gotten out a hacksaw and cut open a new door. If she hadn’t been so unhappy, she would not have created a path to creativity and discovery that still unfolds today.
So I say thank you to my ex-husband. Thank you to the clouds of smoke wafting over my desk decades ago. Thank you to that 29-year-old who chose the life she knew she could live.
“It’s a new day,” she tells me, relaxed and at peace, as though she’s bathed in the sunlight of a June morning. “What are you going to create today?”
Inspiring.
Hello Deb, I'm new to the Iowa Writers Collaborative and delighted to meet you via your work. I love this piece. Having walked away from a marriage and a plum job myself, I applaud your fearlessness and am inspired by your determination to follow your own path. Look forward to reading more.