Riding The Resignation Wave
The pandemic pushed me over the edge...and back to pursuing joy.
Pictured: me, Zoom ready in 2020. Not pictured: my children, fighting and weeping on the other side of the monitor. (Photo by Teal Conroy)
Leaving a job is a daunting prospect. The pursuit of something new can feel like an unattainable privilege. Reductions in salary, time, flexibility, and title present themselves as insurmountable barriers to change. Time marches on, ladders are climbed, and paths are cemented. How do I change course when I realize I’ve gone astray?
That was the question I asked myself at the height of the pandemic. I had spent two decades building a proud career as a fundraiser at top educational and research institutions. My success has always been based on walking confidently into a room and building relationships by sharing the story and vision of my organization to those who could provide transformational financial gifts.
In 2020, as I stared at my blank-faced, ring light-illuminated video reflection, my work identity - my can-do, boss lady bravado - suddenly felt fraudulent. I was spending days upon weeks upon months smiling thinly into a tiny camera behind the gloom and strain of a screen. From behind my laptop, my children wept over school struggles experienced in their own bedrooms. They shouted for the help and attention I could not give them as they wrestled with their upside-down world. In between isolation and classroom Zooms, they fell slowly into the dark and all-enveloping fog of depression. I had never been more present physically with my family yet I had never felt further away.
I couldn’t turn away from my screen. I realized it was not because of a passionate dedication to my job but because of an embedded obligation to my role as a family provider and loyal institutional employee. The nature of my job demanded my time and attention be directed towards others while my own responsibilities and worries at home seemed desperately out of reach. I was asked to return to the office during peak waves of nationwide deaths in order to demonstrate tangible organizational dedication as I fretted over the mental health of my kids. I sat in my office, masked, afraid, and alone. I resented that I was pulled away by what should have been the least of my priorities at the cost of those whom I cared about most.
It doesn’t always take disaster and tragedy to illuminate what is most important, but 2020 and 2021 certainly did their best by doing their absolute worst. As home, office, and school became one enmeshed blur, I answered emails off the clock and frantic texts over the weekend, giving service with a smile to those who were greeting me with a frown because COVID was keeping us from throwing the normal bevy of cocktail parties. I was struck with a singular thought: This is not what I dreamed my life to be.
Dreams were my driver in college. A poor kid from a small town - just my mere presence on campus felt like a castle in the sky. You couldn’t tell me that I wasn’t going to win the Oscar for Best Screenplay by age 25. This Creative Writing major was going to take the world by storm with her genius. “Voice of a generation, you say? Do go on!” The confidence of youth was a gift. Yet, I found the gift receipt in the form of $50,000 worth of student loan debt and I exchanged my dreams for stability and security. I put my writing back on the shelf and left the store. In other words, I got a “real” job.
Fast-forward to April 2021. I turned 43 years old and on multiple occasions, I accidentally told people I was 42 because somewhere in between learning to read masked expressions, weekly COVID tests, house projects, and self-imposed quarantines, my brain short-circuited and it lost a year. Losing any more time felt like too much to bear when life was proving, in real-time, to be too short.
So, I quit. I resigned from my high-paying, high-profile job. I walked away from my career identity as I knew it - as I had built it. My reasoning centered around finding the flexibility to be more present for my kids during their most critical time of need and for forevermore. And while this was central to my decision, it was more than that. For many years, I’d lost sight of who I was and who I should be. No longer did I want to choose obligation over passion. Instead, I chose to ride the great wave of resignation and reroute my path. I chose my family. I chose myself.
Shouldn’t we all take note of the fragility of life after the past 19 months and counting? Why can’t I step back, recenter my priorities, and get back to pursuing my writing dreams? Why can’t I continue to raise money for the greater good in a manner that feels purposeful and balanced? Why not both?
I may not be the voice of a generation, but in this generation, I want to use my voice in new ways. I’m still a fundraiser because I believe in the power of philanthropy. I am also now a freelance writer because that is my passion. I’m laughing at the stories and article headlines that keep popping up in my head now that I’ve rid myself of some of the clutter. I’m using my career skills to offer my services of storytelling to others, whether for fundraising or for sheer entertainment value. I’m digging deep to find that cocky college student and I’m asking her to bring back a bit of that swagger. I’m demonstrating to my kids that you don’t have to sacrifice who you are or what you want to be for any outside influence. I’m showing up for my spouse by pursuing joy that can radiate across our entire family. I’m stepping into fear with my resilience skills sharpened and my determination fueled by the deep-seated need to fulfill my purpose.
Most importantly, I’m chasing some dreams.
