In my last newsletter, I wrote about what the last twelve months were like; the toil and grind of a year trying to figure it out. The year I pledged fidelity to myself, not that I knew that’s what I was doing on October 20th, 2023 (my last day in clinic), nor how hard that promise is to keep. All I cared about was that I’d escaped medicine, the vacuum sucking my soul out. And with my soul jarred free, I thought life would be grand, illuminated by meaningful work all-day, every day. But no, what I found, on other side of medicine, was swamp. Dark and dangerous, ambiguous and thick, swampland. No trails. No light. No compass. Just swampy responsibility.
That’s where I trekked for the last year, which had its merits. I made myself a home in the cypresses and nestled in with the gators. And it wasn’t so bad, dare I say fun for stretches. Yet, though I can live there, most folks don’t live in the swamp unless they have to, and I don’t have to anymore.
Just this week, trekking on, I look down and see my boots are dry. No more cypresses, only pines, and trails fork in all directions. And all I see is meaningful work, swamped no more.
Hours after I quit medicine, the great probe began with a question I’d go on to receive a hundred more times over the next year: “So, what are you going to do now?” I tried to overwhelm my friend or family member’s query by drowning it in a sensical blend of real estate investing and medical consulting. I couldn’t look unprepared or reckless; I’d just left a job where I could made six figures doing what I trained eight years to do. My reply satisfied the asker but was I satisfied? No, I was doing what I’d done for those eight years of training: blowing smoke.
The vise-like pressure to have a plan—I had just married—was warranted. Most nights, I stared at our ceiling waiting for a career to pop out. It never did. Out in the surf lineup, I considered asking if anyone was hiring. Ace Hardware, a place I was frequenting more and more as a married man, was hiring at $18/hour, part-time! On those drives home from Ace, I visualized which department I’d work in. Lawn and Garden? Paint? Hardware? I was leaning Paint. Those guys were great, and I did like paint.
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But the probe continued, from all comers, and eventually, relinquishing reputation, I trusted the truth, and began replying, “I honestly do not know.” Disconcerting for the asker, I was out of the straitjacket, freed to go figure it out, no longer pretending I had it all under control, for the first time in my life. To know the answer, right after I’d dedicated near a decade to something I never wanted, didn’t seem in accordance with the laws of life. Not knowing seemed right.
All the while, I kept writing with gravitas. Though not rich in substance—most of what I wrote needs to remain where its stashed somewhere on my computer—the ritual was steeped in meaning. It wasn’t always a good time, but it was always meaningful, as I sat at my custom, self-made desk each morning. I began to occupy the “private sense of wellbeing” written about by Daniel Duane in Caught Inside. And when I ran out of things to write, I stalked the Santa Barbara hills for discarded furniture, making very necessary money out of junk on the curb.
There I remained, mired in the mid-life crisis swamp, not knowing what I was doing but trying to trust in doing what felt good and true: furniture and writing.
Last week, I published my first book. This week, I signed a lease for space at a local furniture store. And my boots are dry, trails surround, and meaningful work guides.
All it took was a year in the swamp.
This week I published my first book. For a limited time, I’m giving away free copies to anyone who signs up for my newsletter, here.
(Photo Caption: while not a gator—let’s call it a “mini-gator”—it’s good to have friends in the swamp. I needed them all.)
