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Somewhere along the way, I lost my career.
It wasn't in as dramatic a fashion as say, a professional athlete suffering a career-ending injury that forces him to sell the Bentley and start selling life insurance or used cars. I had an accidental career, one I had stumbled into out of desperation yet one I was decently suited for. It had a name: technical editor. I had business cards that proclaimed it. When asked what I did for a living, I could confidently give a response. It was specific. It sounded somewhat professional. It even made it sound like I'd actually put my mostly good-for-nothing college degree to use.
Then one day I found myself in transition. My last day as a tech editor coincided almost exactly with my divorce hearing. My former employer had soured me, and I misplaced my distaste on my occupation and not where it belonged (the soul-sucking poisonous environment from which I had just been mercifully freed). When I picked up an odd job working for some acquaintances, I didn't consider that I'd probably never hold that illustrious title again. I didn't care. I told myself I was moving on to bigger and better things.
Since that day over five years ago, I've floated from job to job in an economically challenged area with a longer-than-desirable stint as one of the unemployed masses, supplemented with work, but definitely not a career. Even though I work away from home part-time, there has never been an internal struggle over whether I am choosing my career over staying at home to raise my child, because I have no career. I have a paid position, one that barely pays my bills and definitely does not fulfill me in real way.
My current job is one funded by soft money that is likely to run out at the beginning of this summer, leaving me right back where I was eighteen months ago. No increased skill set, no deeper clarity about what I want to do with my life, no more or less secure in my life goals. Additionally, I will be there with the added responsibility of caring for a child, so there is no option of just falling through the cracks or sitting on my ass because I don't feel like doing anything else.
For me, there is nothing worse than feeling like you aren't making a difference. Will I ever figure out what I want to be when I grow up? At 34 years old, I'm still wondering.
Amy blogs over at This Northern Life.
