A break

It had to happen.

The Monday after I published my last newsletter, in which I tried to ascertain the possibility of taking a break, I woke up and realized that I couldn’t write. The words wouldn’t come. It felt as though my brain had frozen up while my body was jumpy, on edge, my nerves frayed and dulled.

A week later, the texts from friends, family and mentors started coming in. “How’s it going?” “What’s new?” They were so gentle with me, so kind.

“I can’t stop being sad,” I wrote back. That initial creative spurt and confident determination I felt after getting laid off? It was like a pull-back car that sped ahead before slowly sputtering to a stop. As so many readers suggested in comments and emails, maybe I did need to take a break to process this loss.

My mom, who says I never take her advice, said I’m just “feeling sorry” for myself, and that I need to keep going. If I push the sadness to the side for a moment, I know that I have to keep going. I’m not at death’s door, and any way, I very much enjoy working. I enjoy contributing, I enjoy building, I enjoy putting something out into the world.

At age 13, my mom reminds me, before I could legally work, I had a catering business making cakes and pies for neighbors. My parents signed off on a work permit at 15 so I could do early mornings at a nearby bakery some mornings before I went to school. I’ve done all sorts of jobs between then and now, working as a pastry cook, private chef, marking director, publicist, farmers market salesperson, server, barista, line cook, retail employee, cooking instructor and at least half a dozen other things I can’t remember right now.

But that part about “feeling sorry” for myself? That’s harder to accept as the full truth. I’m sad that I lost my job, especially in today’s job market. I’m grateful that so many readers found me here on Substack, but I’m sad that I lost hundreds of thousands of others. I’m sad that I lost the benefits that come with a job, as my former colleague Ron Charles recently wrote, like paid time off.

Meanwhile, a dear friend lost their father to cancer. Meanwhile, my trusty, loving 16-year-old dog, Frito, still appears to be in good health. Meanwhile, a longtime friend fights through a terminal illness. Meanwhile, a neighbor across the street gave birth to her first baby. Meanwhile, wars continue.

I expect my heart to be able to expand to contain enough empathy and gratitude for all of it, for everyone. Instead, in my sadness, I feel it shrivel, I feel it shudder and shy away from human connection. I wake up most mornings terrified. Of what? I don’t know.

So I took a break. It had to happen.

A close mentor suggested I write about being sad. So here it is, an admission of the persistent sadness that’s been dragging me back to bed most days.

I fought back today. It’s a beautiful day in Washington. A close friend called this morning to patiently listen to my sadness and fears. My son, Cyrus, did a happy dance in his high chair at dinner last night. Our outdoor cat, Marvel, came running to the back porch after I snapped my fingers, offering purrs in appreciation for my pets. A pair of mourning doves is canoodling across the way. What do I have to be sad about, anyway? I wish I understood it. I am searching for the right words. Here are some by one of my favorite poets, Ada Limón.