Hey, look at me! I have no idea what I’m doing!

Nearly six weeks ago, I closed the door on a nearly 18-year career as a writer at a non-profit. In many ways, it was my dream job. I had the privilege of traveling across the globe, meeting amazing people and delivering their stories to hundreds of thousands of supporters. My eyes were opened to the plight of those in poverty, and my heart still bears a million microscopic scars of understanding.

But, it was time to move on. I had felt unsettled for months. I knew that things at work were changing, and it felt like the right time to launch my own new version. Brandy 2.0.

For a month, I made the very intentional decision to rest and recover. I caught up with friends. I did a TON of reading. But in the back of my mind, I heard this hateful little whisper.

“What are you DOING?” it asked. “What is your PURPOSE.”

I have been working full-time without a break of more than two weeks for more than 21 years. As a single person, work was my identity. Even as a married woman, work was still the thing that defined me. Gave me a reason to get up in the morning. My job gave me worth. Value. A purpose.

I told myself that after my month off, I would jump head-first into freelance writing. I’ve wanted to do this for years and am excited to finally explore this new career. But building a client base is a slow, steady process.

That voice got louder. I wasn’t earning my keep. Wasn’t helping to support our household. To be clear, nobody outside of that voice in my head was telling me that. But man, was it a loud voice.

I decided I should cook more. Clean more. My husband would come home and I would rattle off a list of all of the chores I had done that day. He was grateful but confused. I had been a mediocre housecleaner for the past five years. He certainly didn’t marry me because of how well I mopped the floors.

But now I cleaned like a mad woman. “See!” I shouted, “I am valuable!” Only, he never thought I wasn’t valuable.

Tonight, I discussed this very topic with our counselor. She said, “How old is the part of you that’s saying that?”

I laughed out loud. I was fully in the “Hey, look at me!” part of myself. The little girl who wanted attention, who stood and waved her arms and begged people to notice her.

On the drive home tonight, I thought about my plan for the next several months—a time of uncertainty and more waiting than I am comfortable with. I wondered, how can I give shape, instead of purpose, to my days? I don’t do well wandering the house, eyes glazed and hair unbrushed. But I also need to learn to live without the black-and-white task lists that give me a scorecard for the day.

So, I will keep cleaning the house, but make it less about earning my keep and more about caring for the home we live in. I will keep connecting with friends, but I will also start to get comfortable connecting with myself. I will go on solo artist dates and long walks, and hopefully, I will write about them here.

Because I am a writer. Whether I’m getting a paycheck for it or not!