I Believed Once

I believed once.

I thought I could make a difference. I followed my heart and used my voice and put it out there. I worked. Hard. I worked through lunch. I worked late, came home, had dinner, and worked some more.

I wrote. I wrote and wrote and brainstormed because I believed. And because I believed I put my whole heart in to my work.

The path my life has taken over the last five years has made me who I am now. Some of that evolution is on this blog, but so much of it is because of my work – the absolute passion and dedication I put into it, the opportunities I’ve had, and the people I’ve worked with.

My work changed who I knew I could be, but it’s the evolution chronicled here that has changed who I am. It has changed what I believe.

It has changed what I believe I can do.

I believe I’ve done what I can do in my current job, especially because recent changes have taken the work in a different direction. Despite knowing this is what I must do, I do it with a heavy heart. I played a big part in building something bold, and because that something will inevitably change – partly because the organization has changed but also because that’s what things do – I feel as though I’m saying goodbye not only to a job and a team but to a piece of myself. When I pack up my desk the box containing my pictures will also contain the shadow of my contribution, exiting the building with me dressed in both regret that things must change and an attempt at preserving something that meant something to me.

It’s time for me to move on.

We’ve spent the better part of the last month sprucing up our house and on Friday a For Sale sign will appear on our lawn.

On a date in the not-too-distant future I will write a letter to my boss and sign a piece of paper giving my house over to someone else.

I’m leaving the work and the people and the organization that changed how I think about what work is.

I’m leaving the first house we owned, and the house I brought my son home to.

I’m leaving the city I grew up in, where my parents – and my son’s grandparents – are six minutes away.

I’m leaving who I used to be in order to find out who I can become.

Who I think I am now.

I believed once.

And I’m choosing to believe again.

Sunrise over the Canadian Rockies

Robin Farr is a writer, a conference speaker, a communications professional and a mom to a toddler boy. Her motto is "Live the life you're meant to." She writes about motherhood, her struggle with postpartum depression, and finding inspiration at http://farewellstranger.com.

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