Pivoting Pro: Laid off--but ready for what's next

Like tens of thousands of workers, I was laid off recently. 

I've spent the past three years working in communications for the local community college: writing stories, news releases, web content, and producing a series of videos. My contract ended, and with it, my income, healthcare and other benefits.

But I'll be OK. First of all, I am not my job. My life is much bigger than how I make my living.

This isn't the first time I've been laid off or the first time I've been up against hard times. I am resilient, resourceful, and creative. I've pivoted in my career so many times that if I weren't 5-foot-2, I'd play for the NBA. 

Over the years, I've pivoted from one job and learned to new skills to do another job. 

• I've learned to manage communications for nonprofit organizations. 
• I've learned how to be a reporter for a daily newspaper. 
• I've learned how to write grant proposals for nonprofit organizations.
• I've learned how to stand in front of a TV camera and be spokesperson for an organization.
• I've learned how to write for the Web and social media.
• I've learned how to produce videos. 
• I've learned how to be a much better writer.

Who knows what skills I'll learn next? 

Writing and communications jobs I've done in my career:

I've done many kinds of work that isn't aligned to my college degree or career path. I'll be you have, too. 

• As a teen, I was a carhop at A&W, a lumber sorter and grader at a lumber mill, and a dishwasher in a nursing home.
• I paid for college by working as a file clerk and then by doing data entry.
• I managed shipping and receiving for a college bookstore.
• I created and ran events for an independent bookstore. And I was the Story Lady.
• I managed a small, rural branch library and again was the Story Lady.
• I managed a federal program to assist homeless veterans
• I managed a federal program to provide heating assistance to low-income people
• I managed retail operations at a National Park Service visitor center
• I ran my own book marketing and literary events company.

Who knows what interesting work is ahead for me?

Other kinds of work I've done not related to journalism and writing:

I've worked long enough to know what I want in my work:

My past work experience has also given me clarity about what I don't want in my work:

So here I go again. I'm ready to take on new challenges and see where I can make a difference. 

No need to wish me luck. My dad witnessed my well-developed pivoting skills. He told me: "You're like a cat. You always land on your feet."

I do. 

But do let me know if you hear of someone who needs a writer and communications professional who is resilient and can pivot like an NBA pro.

What jobs have you done? What do you want to do? What do you NEVER want to do again. (For me, it's being micromanaged. Life's too short.)

Here's a nifty free word cloud generator if you'd like to create your own word clouds. 

Enough

I have enough. I am enough.

Not so long ago, this wasn't true. 

When I first returned home from living an adventurous life in eastern Oregon, I was destitute in every way possible: financially, emotionally, spiritually. 

I was spent. Broken.

I realized I couldn't face another winter of living in a fifth wheel RV and rarely being warm enough. 

But it was more than lack of warmth that compelled me to return home. Despite the companionship of the Mountain Man, I was lonely. It was unrealistic and unhealthy for both of us that he be my only friend. 

Back home in the city, I'd had a fulfilling life brimming with community and connection: newspaper reporter, Mighty Woman dragon boat paddler, book group, friends to meet for walking, kayaking, coffee, dancing or other adventures. Before I moved 300 miles to join the Mountain Man, he'd warned me that living in a tiny, rural ranching area would be hard.

I balked. How hard could it be? I've always found community wherever I go.

Not this time. I failed to find community or connection. I was an outsider. A city gal. It seemed I always would be an outsider.

We lived on a ranch seven miles from a burg of 400 people. Amenities consisted of a K-12 school, a postage-stamp-sized post office, a convenience store, a cafe, and a card-lock gas station. We did our grocery shopping and other business in La Grande, 30 minutes north or Baker, 30 minutes south.

I tried to make friends. I tried to find community. But nothing I tried worked, so I stopped trying. I took long walks alone. I swam in Wolf Creek Reservoir alone. I went snowshoeing alone.

My isolation from community grew into loneliness; loneliness grew into discontentment. Then unhappiness. And my unhappiness rubbed off on the Mountain Man. Living away from my community in a 323-square-foot RV turned out to be more difficult than I'd fathomed. Despite our love for each other, it wasn't working.

We'd been happier when we lived apart and met for grand adventures: backpacking to camp among a herd of mountain goats, hiking, spelunking, kayaking, swing dancing, archery, fly fishing, skiing, playing music and singing together.

The day I moved away from him, the Mountain Man and I clung to each other and cried. 

Two years earlier, just before I left the city to begin my new life with him, my sisters had thrown me a going-away party. So many friends and family packed into a restaurant to send me off on my grand adventure.

In stark contrast, when I moved back to the city, I did it quietly. No fanfare. I didn't want to draw attention to myself or my failure. In my eyes, I had failed at sustaining a relationship. I had failed at being tough and resilient living in challenging circumstances. I thought other people would see my failure, too, and they'd reject me. So I didn't give them a chance.

I didn't climb back onto the dragon boat with my former team, the Mighty Women. I didn't call my friend, Brenda, and ask her to go contra dancing as we had before. I didn't seek out old friends to karaoke at The Alibi or to take a belly dancing lesson with me. 

Instead, I quietly spent time with my family and a handful of close friends. But the rest of the world I kept at arm's length.

Who would want to spend time with me? I asked myself. I'm a failure.

My defeatist attitude thwarted my ability to find a job, which perpetuated my feelings of unworthiness. I applied for many jobs and had first interviews and second interviews, but no job offers came. 

Even after moving back home and changing my life again, I was floundering.

One morning I was out of coffee. I needed five dollars to buy a package of coffee to get me through the week, but my checking account was bare. 

First, I burst into tears. (I really needed coffee!)

Then I put on my big girl panties to find a solution. I dumped the contents of my wallet on the floor, stacked the coins and began counting. Not enough. How demoralizing to be so broke!

Then I remembered a jar of change I'd found during my move. I dumped the jar onto the floor and began counting the change. 

It was enough! A small success.

Eventually, I found some freelancing gigs: writing grants for a food pantry, writing stories for a magazine and the newspaper where I'd been a reporter. It wasn't enough income to live on. After taking inventory of what skills I could monetize, I started a decluttering business. Kind friends paid me to declutter their homes. That helped.

I lived frugally, squeezing every molecule of toothpaste from the tube before I tossed it. I signed up for Medicaid health insurance. I picked up free food from my local Buy Nothing group. 

My Subaru's tires kept losing air, so I stopped by Les Schwab to fill them. The attendant who helped me showed me that they were bare. No traction left. 

"You shouldn't drive on those tires. It's dangerous."

I called a few tire shops and was shocked by the price tag: $500! Where would I get $500?

So I didn't do anything about it. One morning after arriving at a friends' house for a decluttering job, one tire was completely flat and it had a gaping hole. Before I did any decluttering, my friend wrote me a check for $500 so I could buy tires. I paid her back by decluttering her house over several months. 

In gratitude and humiliation, (and more tears) I received her offer of help--and the help of many others. My dear friends, Kathleen and Michael rent me their lovely mother-in-law suite for a very, very reasonable rate. My  family gave me Arco gas cards or cash for Christmas and my birthday--and sometimes just because. 

About a year after returning home, I continued applying for jobs without success. Then an acquaintance offered me a part-time temporary job at the local community college. Over time, I was given more hours. 

Recently I celebrated my two-year anniversary working part time for the college. For the past six months, a steady stream of freelance writing projects have come my way--unsolicited. Opportunity after opportunity has dropped into my lap. 

What a difference this work has made in my life! I've paid off my credit card and have kept the balance at zero. I've raised my credit score to "excellent." My checking account has a cushion and I'm building up my savings account. I'm contributing a significant amount of my salary into a retirement account. 

I still squeeze every molecule of toothpaste from the tube, but here's how far I've come: I bought two extra tubes of toothpaste when they were on sale.

Like many people, I've faced challenges and hard times. I am certain I will face challenges again. But three years after returning home, I finally can say: I have enough. I am enough.

My successes and my attitude of gratitude have given me confidence again. At last I climbed back onto the dragon boat with my Mighty Women teammates. Gripping my paddle, I reached forward, plunged my paddle into the Willamette River, and pulled the heavy water behind me. Our boat lifted up and glided through the water. I smiled.

The Mighty Woman is back!

Finishing an amazing paddle before a midsummer sunset.
I'd just surprised a heron, who flew over me, squawking.
As the setting sun glinted off the floating homes,
I gasped at this magical moment on the river.
The Mighty Woman is back, baby! 

Don't let obstacles block your happiness

Oh no! Something's blocking your way! What do you do?

When we walked into Mississippi Pizza ready to dance to Kory Quinn's music, I immediately noticed guitar cases haphazardly piled on the tiny dance floor at the base of the stage.

"They should move those guitar cases," I told Kirby. "Someone might trip."

The jumble of guitar cases spilling onto the dance floor was a roadblock to our dance plans. And in a way, to my expectations and happiness for the evening. Should I dance and risk tripping? Or just listen to the music from the sidelines and watch the other dancers having fun?

How do you approach life's potential roadblocks?

Do you carefully map out each step and consider potential obstacles to your success before you move your big toe a centimeter? Or do you leap from the ledge, letting the wind take you in whatever direction it chooses, without a care to potential roadblocks that might stand in your way? Most of us fall somewhere in the middle of these two extremes.

Not long ago, before I moved a pinky, I wrote extensive numbered lists of "pros" and "cons of a decision I was contemplating. I carefully considered potential consequences. After I made my decision, I moved at a glacial pace.

But in the past few years, more often than not, I've stood on the ledge and leaped. I might lick my finger and test the wind's direction, but recent experience has taught me that even if you plan very carefully, life doesn't always go according to plan. Let me revise that last phrase: In my experience, life rarely goes according to plan.

What's caused my philosophy to change so drastically? Having the carpet pulled out from under me and falling hard on my rear multiple times has made me a freer spirit. I'm no longer afraid of falling. I've already done it. I plan less and live more by the seat of my pants. So far, in my new normal, that philosophy has served me well.

If we look closely, any situation is fraught with potential obstacles. If I didn't try something because I might fall down, I'd never have an adventure. There is always the possibility of falling down, especially for me. Last year I fell on porch steps, hitting my head, neck and back and suffered a concussion. Many years ago, while sitting on my sister Judy's slick vinyl couch, I did a nosedive onto the floor. I wasn't even moving and I fell off the couch!

I seem to be much more graceful in a dragon boat or kayak, but put me on land, and I may fall down, hard. Without warning.

So as I scoped out potential obstacles on the dance floor, that pile of guitar cases seemed like a doozy. But I didn't let the threat of tripping over guitar cases or any other obstacles prevent me from dancing. I really wanted to dance.

As Kory started singing one of our favorite songs, Kirby led me to the dance floor. I stopped worrying about that pile of guitar cases and enjoyed dancing. Things went well--for about 45 seconds. I'd completely forgotten about the guitar cases until I backed into them, lost my balance, and dipped backward toward the stage, with my head swooping very low.

Thankfully, although I was mid-fall, my hands were still in correct swing dance position, allowing Kirby to grab my hands and pull me back up--without missing a beat of the music.

Perhaps people watching us dance thought, "Wow! How cool is that? Look at that deep dipping move! That couple dances well together!"

More likely people saw the panicked look on my face and thought, "That klutzy woman tripped over the guitar cases and almost fell over backward onto the stage. Her dance partner sure saved her patootie."

I'm thankful I took a risk. Yes, I tripped over the guitar cases, but thanks to Kirby's quick actions, I didn't fall. We had a fun and even memorable time dancing.

Life is far too short to worry about potentially tripping over obstacles. Don't worry that you might fall. Get up and dance--with gusto! See you on the dance floor!