Next week I start working again. It’s been <checks notes> 1 year, 7 months, 10 days and 18 hours. But who’s counting? 

One of the recommendations they give you when you are young (and over and over again in TEDTalks virtually forever after) is to find work you love. Love the work you do. Do the work that makes you happy, and you will be successful. Sloppy thinking from privileged people has always been my assessment. It makes some really big assumptions about our ability to find joy, get paid for doing the things in which we take pleasure, or even our starting place in terms of place, education, and opportunity. Having said that, I do actually get paid to do something that brings me genuine pleasure. I’m one of those privileged people. So getting back to work for me does not involve even a moment’s concern or dread or worry. It’s a genuine relief, in fact.

In fact.

In fact that is probably a problem for me. One thing that has become clear over the past seven months is that I use work as a mechanism to defer, neglect, and avoid aspects of my existence which I really don’t like. For example (and for those who have worked with me before, this may come as a bit of a startle), I am deeply, profoundly lazy and ill-disciplined. Also, my distractibility is probably the most obvious manifestation of an attention deficit hyperactivity issue which had I been born 20 years later would no doubt have resulted in therapy and a lot of Ritalin. So how does someone who is both lazy and easily distracted manage to get anything accomplished? Turns out, I don’t. Outside of the structure of work, I apparently can’t even tie my own shoes on a daily basis. In a work context, however, I've been able to manufacture productivity for decades. I do this through a somewhat extreme application of the Getting Things Done methodology and constant self-flagellation. I’m so damn good at getting myself to do foo at work, it bleeds into my home life where I can knock off chores, finances, and organisation like the fake productivity guru I play on TV. 

Just not for the past 7 months… during which I believe I may have cleaned the kitchen. Once.

With no projects, no obligations, no destinations or goals or demands placed upon me, I have been forced to spend time with myself in a way that I don’t think I have ever before paused long enough to do. And while it was at times boring, other times frustrating, and resulted in a self-diagnosis of clinical depression, I’m glad this interval was thrust upon me. I’m not saying I enjoyed it. Not at all. Depression sucks, I’ve been a pretty shit bubble mate and a worse wife and mother, and I’ve imposed on virtually everyone to listen to me whinge. 

Yet, here I am. I definitely know more about the “real me” then I did before my basement incarceration. I am dealing with some emotional baggage I was able to ignore before and which really needed lifting and shifting. I am a much better daughter. I will get back to some semblance of a good friend, wife, and mother soon… the trajectory looks positive. My leadership and change coaching will be far better informed from this experience of ‘forced’ unemployment. 

I also know that I won’t ever retire, because I don’t really work when I’m at work. As one of the privileged few, I do something that grounds me to the here and now and fills me with purpose and passion and pleasure and excitement every single day. And if people won’t pay me to do it, I’ll happily do it for free until I’m not sufficiently mentally sharp enough to continue.

On the other hand, I really am looking forward to a new laptop and a free phone next week. Who says I’m not a material girl?