Recently, I met up with my friend Sarah for a midday meal at the local park. Our relaxed outings are dwindling; her youngest child is set to enter kindergarten this fall, and she’s currently navigating multiple job interviews. “I’m feeling so anxious,” she admitted.
“I can only imagine,” I responded, my hands beginning to sweat in empathy. “Interviews can really rattle you.”
“No,” she clarified. “I’m anxious about them actually offering me a position. That’s when it becomes real. Up until now, I’ve been in this whimsical daydream of ‘I’ll work again someday.’ But now they’re asking about salary and travel commitments, and it’s a lot to handle.”
I felt a pang for her, wiping my sweaty palms on my joggers, already stained with jelly. I, too, had been clinging to my own fantasy of returning to work someday. The reality hit me—she was truly stepping back into the workforce, with all the implications that come with it. She’d have to don real clothes. What would that mean for her life?
Six years prior, I had left my career to care for my first daughter, and the transition was jarring. My doctor termed it an “adjustment period,” handing me tissues and a prescription. I felt as though I had landed on a different planet—one where deadlines and presentations were replaced by a different kind of stress: the fear of an accident going unnoticed until evening.
Initially, I struggled. But with the arrival of two more children, I found my rhythm. Gradually, my corporate knowledge was eclipsed by pre-school schedules and a mental list of local parks. Over these years, I’ve learned to slow my pace and speed through meals. I only buy pants that can double as pajamas. Grocery shopping has become an intricate puzzle, where I visit multiple stores just to assemble one salad.
People often ask me what my plans are once all my kids are in school. I used to joke that I would lounge around, gathering cobwebs and basking in my hard-earned freedom. In the early days of motherhood, when I was grappling with my mental health, that sounded idyllic.
Now, however, I can’t voice that thought without feeling a lump in my throat. It conjures images of me conversing with my cleaning supplies. Currently, I’m pushing myself forward at a pace that keeps me grounded; any slower and I might spiral into chaos. They say idle hands are the devil’s playground, and in my home, that devil is often found indulging in snacks while eavesdropping on the neighbors. I refuse to become that person.
In just a year and a half, I’ll be donning my “big girl” attire and stepping out into the world again, and it fills me with trepidation. Emerging from my comfortable cocoon into the unpredictability of the real world feels daunting.
“Does my brain even still function?” I ponder, as I discover a mini Snickers hidden in the couch and eat it without a second thought. What if I have to stay late at work? What if my children fall ill? What about summer vacations? What if I have to, heaven forbid, juggle multiple tasks at once?
Even animals are given a period of adjustment before being reintroduced into the wild—taught survival skills and presented with controlled challenges to gauge their reactions. In stark contrast, jumping blindly into an entirely new environment could lead to disaster.
I glanced across the table at Sarah as I took a sizable bite of my salad. We both seemed doomed.
I reflected on my previous job; it feels like a distant memory. I struggle to recall what it was like to go more than a few minutes without asking someone if they need to use the bathroom. I wonder if I’ll even be capable of holding back my instinct to ask during a meeting.
But then I remembered the support system that existed back then—someone brewed coffee, another stocked the snack drawer, and someone else cleaned the bathrooms nightly.
“Hey, at least if you fall down the stairs, someone will be there to call for help right away,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood.
She nodded in agreement. Maybe that’s the silver lining we need to focus on.
This article was originally published on May 19, 2016.