I began freelancing again, resolved to master balancing the ever-teetering scale of fervent, metamorphic optimism and paralyzing, existential self-doubt.
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I relocated to Seattle and moved into an overpriced, cramped, postage stamp-sized apartment. In an upside-down reality, I wanted to champion myself and do ‘something.’ And so, with a certain amount of gumption, I undertook the responsibility of searching for purpose, not waiting for it to fall into my lap. So we hiked back up (bike, gear and all) and ended up camping close to the Third Beach parking lot off the trailhead in the woods. The tide was coming in and there was just no dry space to set up shop. …after getting dropped off in La Push… We spun through town to Third Beach… and hiked down to the shore where we realized that we could not camp. Our bikes are strapped to the front rack, bags piled around us in the adjacent seats. I grew tired and weary and craving fulfillment. With so much unpredictability, I struggled to do real, meaningful “work.” Feeling a constant pressure to compose emails and tap away at computer keys, home life seamlessly meshed into work life. My manager had quit without replacement and I floated along an aimless trajectory, making up additional job responsibilities as I went. I felt both disposable and in-demand exhausted, but left with a permeating fear of upsetting an operational chain. I questioned my own existence and sense of purpose. With a cell phone and 13-inch computer screen acting as bridges to all of humanity, I was overwhelmingly connected, yet incredibly distant at the same time. Outlook pings governed my daily life recurring meetings and phone calls structured my weekdays ‘to-the-hour.’ Most interactions were conducted in real-time Brady Bunch video cubes.
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For almost an entire calendar year, I watched as the business I worked for tracked record profits, month after month, while I toiled away at the kitchen table of my studio apartment amidst the onset of a global pandemic.