On Quitting Your Dream Job

Today was my last day at my dream job.

When I gave my two weeks notice, I frantically reached out to my favorite friend/fellow writer Ally and asked her if I could submit a guest piece to That First Year because a) writing for this blog made me much less manic and b) however, I still am manic to my core and needed an outlet to vent through.

Coming out of school, working in the marketing world truly wasn't even on my radar. I was so dead-set on finding a career in journalism/writing/starring in my own TV show on HBO that I totally pigeon-holed myself into only working within an atmosphere that had to do with my major (which also taught me that your major doesn't always need to directly apply to what you end up doing in the long run... I changed mine three times). And when I found this perfect little office on Bow Street in Portsmouth—and somehow managed to convince them to trust me enough to take a shot at marketing for the very first time—I honestly thought I would never leave.

You become a different person than the one you were right after graduation. Sometimes, I feel like I become a different person every single day, and with each day, I try to reflect on what it is I truly want or need. And at the time, it was a job that fulfilled both.

But after a while, and in my classic twenty-something fashion, I began to feel restless. I wasn't sure exactly what it was I wanted anymore. Because my heart is similar to Augustus Gloop in that it's greedy. It wants to know all of the outcomes. It wants to know which path to take before I have to take a single step. It wants freedom. It wants travel. It wants stability. And more often than not, it wants chocolate.

Letting yourself grow (and growing up in general) is so hard when you feel so comfortable. Here, I was writing every day, I was working with a team that put up with my never-ending stream of mistakes, questions, and sometimes-quirky, often-annoying anxiousness, and on paper, it was everything I could have hoped for in a job, and was a place that shaped me at such a critical and vulnerable part of my lifetime. But I was outgrowing comfortable. Maybe, what I needed at the time wasn't what I needed anymore. Maybe, somewhere along the line over these past few years, my dreams began to change. Or maybe, I was the one who was changing.

It's okay if you haven't found your dream job quite yet. And it's okay to quit your dream job. And it's okay if you're not even sure what your dream job is. Maybe there is no such thing. Maybe you can grow and thrive and fall in love with a million different places and people, which I learned after—with a racing heart and clammy forehead—I told each coworker, who had all become family to me at a time when I needed it most, that I was leaving and got nothing but total support, understanding, and encouragement. And, as hard and as heartbreaking as it was, I had to let myself accept the fact that it was okay to let certain places and people change and grow and evolve, even if it meant that it was without me.

If there's anything I've taken from this experience—or any experience, rather—it's that you should always, always listen to your greedy heart. Learn from it. Trust it.

And how lucky was I to have people in my life telling me to follow mine.

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The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Career, DreamsAlyssa VottoNovember 5, 2017FeaturedComment

On Quitting Your Dream Job

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