Dear Dad,
I’ve quit my job. The stable job with a good salary. The job that has allowed me to climb the employment ladder for the last 12 years and given me a respectable, perhaps perfunctory life. When I handed in my notice, they were very gracious, telling me how sad they were, how much I would be missed, but within 2 days the advert for my job was out, and they were showing around prospective candidates within the week. Colleagues who had been keen for my job (and perhaps even waiting for this moment when I would leave) were cornering me, and asking me in hushed whispers for any tips. As ever showing that at work you are replaceable, and will be forgotten in the blink of an eye.
I haven’t slept since then.
Waking up as I do now, to feel the panic rising in my chest. In 6 months time I will have no money, I will have to leave the flat I love, with its wide chimney and millions of spider webs hidden on the inside, each providing me with a new guest that needs to be caught and released back into the wilds of suburban life. The huge Georgian ceilings, and the trees whose greenery cover the front windows in the summer and doves come to nest. This is the place I happily stayed in when we had nowhere to go, birds in the trees slowly rediscovering their tune, as London became more desolate. The flat that reaches almost 40 degrees in the summer and 10 degrees in the winter, and that is in desperate need of a lick of paint and a new carpet. A place that held my love and I as we heaved the many boxes of books up 3 flights of stairs, and sat amongst them drinking tea, eating half packets of biscuits laughing with our friends. A love now lost to time, but I hold onto in memory, just remaining here.
I know this is the right thing to do. It is time to move on. From a job that has burnt me out, left me questioning what life is really about. A home built with love, that echoes with the longing I have held in my heart, for a life that will not return. In a way I worry that you will be disappointed in me. You have always mentioned that I should have saved more, got married. I should have a home I call my own by now. You were always pleased I was in a job that was stable. For 40 years you were serving the people of our town, knowing their needs and wants for money, supporting them to buy houses, or offering advice if they faced financial hardship. And here I am, your daughter who has always followed the traditional path, with her sound job, that you’d be bursting with pride to tell people about, embracing the unknown, and unemployed.
You have shown me no disappointment in me quitting my job and almost shown something bordering on joy. So perhaps this fear is something I hold within me as a people pleaser, like every child desperately trying to prove their existence was worth it to their parents.
For the first time in 20 years I will be moving back to our home town to be with you and mum. We are both quietly aware that this is so we may spend as much time as we have left together, however much the universe allows us. “There’s no risk, Anna” you say, “you can always find another job if you need to, they are always crying out for people like you.” My heart relaxes a little, but deep within it I hold a secret.
My plan isn’t to return to a similar job.
I don’t intend to set up camp here in the same way.
4 years ago, how I viewed the world changed. Friends and mentors of mine tell me of all the astrological reasons for why that point in time has caused such a seismic shift for so many people, and these last years have felt monumental, like I have had a soul gasping for air, shifting the sands within me, desperate to be released to experience a world that the binding of society has kept me from. I want to be able to explain this to you, talk to you about the beauty of creativity, of freedom, of the not knowing. But sometimes when I start to do I feel naïve in your eyes, like perhaps I am viewing the world all wrong.
But it can’t be dad surely? That we are born, have fun as children and then grind away at a job we’re not even sure we like, and then age and die. Surely that’s not it. The occasional “nice” holiday, that momentarily takes away from the money and life worries, that acts a fleeting reason for existence. But not a life of full presence. This can’t be it.
Dad, I want to be a writer. A philosopher. A scientist. I want to be a spiritual mentor, a gardener, a keeper of the Earth. A wild swimmer, an inhabitant of a slow paced life. A slow paced life that allows me to take a breath and observe the moments; a steady breeze through the grass and the sun in my eyes. Free to roam wherever I wish. I feel a guilt in this time of sorrow. A guilt that through our experience with mortality I have become more alive. As if the veil has been lifted and I have seen the secrets to the universe. But the shame of saying to you in the face of such an ending prevents me from doing so.
I know you will always support me in whatever I do, I know it. But in this time where the plan is unclear, the path is covered with weeds, and the destination hidden I know you might fret. Please don’t Dad. Although this panic wakes me in the night, I feel as if it isn’t a true panic. It is a panic of an ego, or a person, dying so another may bloom. I trust the universe even though the page is blank. I feel her running through my veins. This path I am on, I worry won’t reveal itself in time, and somehow I will be a disappointment to you. That you won’t see that following what I believe to be a deep call is the answer.
I hope I can make you proud Dad. I really do. I hope I don’t cause you worry when I tell you I’m not returning to the same job, and that the universe fills you with the excitement I carry to.
With all my love Dad. Always.
Anna xxx
Well done Anna - just came across your substack and wow, you have put into words (and actions) exactly what I felt and did after my own dad's death. I lost my way but found a new purpose in the haze. Quit my job, relationship and moved out to the country for a quieter and slower pace to life having seen that 'tomorrow is not a given' firsthand. You write so well and thanks for sharing.
As soon as your name popped into my inbox I read right away as your writing captivates me. Congratulations for stepping into the unknown and for finding a new aliveness.
I’d like to share one of the quotes I sought comfort in when I first quit my job, perhaps it’ll be a comfort for you also:
“As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.” - Rumi
Good luck and keep writing (please.)