The Road, One Tent, and Me

They call it The Great Resignation. No one talks about what happens after the resignation: The Great Unravelling.

I walked into that room as if it was my first time. The items remained in the same position as I had left them just 10 hours ago. A feeling of disgust and loneliness washed over me. This is home — and yet — it wasn’t. I was waking up to a stranger’s belongings.

Three months ago, if you had told me I would be unemployed — by choice — on a piece of land owned by two southern brothers near the coast of Georgia? Well, I would have laughed. Life has always picked some rude awakenings and fantastical circumstances for me.

A 10-hour slumber, and I knew one thing to be true: I was living a life that wasn’t mine. Everything would need to be destroyed. The seed was planted during those hours in late November.

Three months later, all the pieces that upheld the structure of that current life and its circumstances? Gone.

I was earning money to convince myself that my 8 years of higher education hadn’t gone to waste. With 15 years in the field, I managed to finally create financial freedom for myself. I had made it, right?

15-year old Natalie thought so; she wanted nothing more than to make her way into one of those tiny windows. During occasional family trips to the Windy City, she promised herself: one day, I’ll make it inside. Business suit attire. Notepad in left hand. Briefcase in my right. People would look up to me. I would finally matter. I would finally belong somewhere.

That one day came nearly a decade later. The windows were not as tiny, but it was a start. The discomfort of a country in political strife, extreme corruption, and a limited sense of safety and security — well that felt like a warm bubble bath; Beirut was mine to call home, and she made me feel special. I managed to work inside of a building with one of those windows for three years. I completed a fancy MA degree amidst daily electricity cuts, week-long water shortages, hookah buzzes and Turkish coffee, bombs within a 3-mile radius of me that sometimes shook those special office windows, and a boyfriend who was at his wit’s end as a Kurdish refugee from Syria. He gave me three things: fluency in Arabic, the wild ride of a person escaping war, and a life of living hell as I allowed him to freeload me with my salary of $1,000 a month. But, that window in Downtown Beirut? I had made it.

I needed others to know I had made it. I was worthy of this life, damnit. A little pretending never hurt anyone, right?

Right?

You need this job. You need this money. You need this apartment. The structures of society nagged at me, like a toddler pulling on her momma’s skirt.

The tugs become longer and stronger. I knew they were trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t quite decode its language. I wasn’t ready to hear it. In 2016, I found a prestigious window at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Purchasing a nice set or two of my favorite business attire, I packed my bags and departed from Beirut, a city that I paradoxically hated and loved. She was a great witness and introduction to the truths and dualities I would face down the road. By circumstance and within my first week, I found an apartment in the capital of one of the world’s most powerful countries. And the prestigious window was minutes away from the White House. Months later, they inaugurated Trump as the President of the United States. I had really made it this time.

I traded my political window for a green window at a global non-profit addressing the built environment and global communities. I am sharp and I will make it work, I convinced myself. It felt surreal. Another window. In a fancier building. The most innovative office space I had ever experienced. Jazzier than Steve Carell’s workplace in The Office. I had made it.

Upon my breakup with the perfect-on-paper blue-eyed boy that made enough money to make me uncomfortable, I was initiated into weekly psychotherapy sessions — and unshakable self-awareness followed thereafter. My treacherous anxiety would be the reason we broke up, I would tell myself.

“My anxiety?” My therapist questioned me.

“You speak as if it it’s a part of you, like your leg or arm. As if it owns you,” he continued. I never realized the power this she-beast had over me.

“You can’t find American boys like that, Natto. They aren’t like us,” my mother and much of my family would exclaim. They thought I had missed out. So, I did, too. How’s a girl like me going to find another guy like him? I’ll never be ____ enough. I’ll let you fill in the blank. Any positive quality will do, but it usually boiled down to just not good enough.

He was too good for me.

I could no longer recognize the eyes that were looking back at me in the mirror. Was she ever recognizable? Was she as good as she pretended to be? Was she as good as she was expected to be for over 35 years?

Who am I? And what do I want?

One thing was certain: I knew that I never really knew all along.

I was too busy being somebody for everyone else.

I left my managerial position — just two months shy of five years — the longest-standing position I’ve ever had. What an accomplishment to dedicate so much to one organization!

Most people would agree. I would instead like to pose the question: what fear is holding you back?

The broken bridge between where you are and where you aspire to be. The gap.

The structures of society kept nagging at me, like a toddler pulling on her momma’s skirt.

Except this time, she told me:

You don’t need this money.

You don’t need this apartment.

You don’t need this job.

You don’t need this city.

You don’t need this life. In fact, you don’t want it.

In February, I left my position of five years.

Just one more window, and I would find my self-worth. Just one more window, and I would find my happiness. Just one more window, and I would finally belong. Just one more window, and I would make it.

I was ready to break the fucking window.

Unbecoming who you’ve known yourself to be all along takes courage. Unbecoming who others have known you to be takes persistence, strength, and self-respect.

In doing so, we tread a groundlessness present moment. This requires all the self-trust.

Somehow, someway, you can trust that you’ll find your way through all the hurdles, all the absurdities, and all the nonsensical happenings. Through all the ups and down, one thing remains: you are here.

While I write this, I still struggle with anxiety. I still have no idea what the fuck I am doing. And, I still trust, that somehow, someway, I’ll continue to find my way.

Do I regret leaving my position without having anything in mind? No.

Am I the happiest I’ve been so far? Yes.

Am I the most fearful I’ve been so far? Every day.

Would I do this all over again? Yes.

Last week, I bought a tent and sleeping bag for the very first time.

I’ve never camped in my life. I don’t know how to pitch a tent (okay — I’m learning!). And, I’ve never known how to create a fire. Shelter and warmth, the basic necessities for survival. The next day, I drove myself to a campsite where I stayed for one week and met some amazing souls with strong stories of pain, loss, resilience, and happiness. “One thing will be certain,” said a wise elder on the campsite. “Fear will be present. Do it with fear.”

The path is so unclear at this moment, and that tells me I’m finally on the right one.

Freedom over comfort. Every single time.