the first of many

Try as I might, I couldn’t fully unplug during the week of Thanksgiving. It was my first week of self-employment and, despite being on self-proclaimed PTO, I still had yoga and Pilates classes to teach, social media posts to upload, and January coaching events to pitch. Nonetheless, I did my best to incorporate more analog practices, like attending yoga classes (rather than teaching!) and spending a little extra time relaxing on the couch.

December 1st, however, called for a new routine. For the first time in 26 years, I don’t have someone else suggesting how I spend my time. My schedule is a blank canvas. Theoretically, that should evoke a tremendous sense of freedom. I’m rather surprised by the emotional rollercoaster ride it took me on instead.

Like many entrepreneurs, I have a new idea springing to life in my brain every 0.2 seconds. My mind puts everything through a filter of achievability and sustainability. I remind myself that not everything needs to happen right now. 

On Wednesday, I opened a fresh Note on my Mac and began brainstorming legitimate ideas. I classified them as: Podcast, Coaching, and Yoga (since a few loose ends remain to transform that business). Noticeably absent? Speaking engagements and writing.

I quickly suppressed the flash of shame, as if the 30-item list wasn’t enough. Like any other timeline in the corporate roles I’ve held, each pursuit will have its own unique milestone calendar. 

From what I’ve seen, the key time for pitching speaking engagements is April to July, when conferences are arranging their line-up for the following spring’s events. When it hits its peak, something else will take a back seat.

Sundays and Mondays require work at the yoga studio, the space needing to be wiped clean by December 31st. Come January, those hours will request an equally meaningful way to be spent, a way to process the grief of closing. I’m certain that writing will gladly step in for solace.

I contacted potential podcast guests and scheduled out interviews. I’ll be excited to get into a rhythm with my show, Rock the Damn Boat, and upload content ahead of time, rather than the seat-of-my-pants process I’m using now.  

It seems that even with this abundance of time, my default code is guaranteed income. It’s not unusual, especially being raised in America, where the work ethic is so ingrained that it was once on my list of core values. 

My fight or flight response had me perusing LinkedIn job suggestions, as if my exit from corporate America was fodder for an episode of Punk’d. My husband jokingly asked me at the end of my first day if I’d made any money. “Yes,” I quipped back, "someone purchased a retreat ticket!"

My default mode is a scarcity mindset. Polly stockpiled everything from cleaning supplies to cornbread mix, as I learned from cleaning out her house. My parents were frugal and I rarely wore the designer jeans I coveted. Even when I splurged with my $9K monthly salary, I often had buyer’s remorse. 

This pivot point is not only a new career path, it’s a massive test of my mindset and nervous system. Can I relax and be patient, knowing that I have ample savings to cover this unpredictable revenue stream? Can I unplug from hustle culture long enough to finish my next book? Can I detach my self-worth from my perceived method of achievement?

Time will tell, but I can say one thing: regardless of the outcome, I do not regret this decision. It’s a reclamation of my life, and a stake in the ground for anyone needing to broaden their definition of success.