If my inner state of being had been on display, it would look as though I was fist fighting the air, mumbling and grumbling about how unhappy I was. Disconnected and discontented, I despised doing work everyday that held little interest to me, living in a place I felt I had long outgrown. My spirit was agitated and wanted an out. I was frustrated that I didn’t know my life’s purpose: that one thing that would give my life meaning and stir my soul day in and day out. And because I didn’t know what that thing was, how could I work passionately towards it? How could I work towards being great and leave a legacy that ‘I was here?’ I mean, that’s what life is all about, right?
Introspective to a fault, I can usually tell when I’m in the grips of a bad habit, but this time I was so caught up. I didn’t recognize it till a friend confronted me with “Didn’t you write a blog post about not doing that?” I rationalized and made excuses. But I knew they were right. What wrongdoing was I up to, you ask? I was fervently looking up grad school programs. Just awful, I know.
No surprise here, I’m an introvert. It’s one of the many things I know to be true of myself, and thank heavens, I’m finally learning to accept and celebrate this very big part of me. I can tell you, though, being in Corporate America has made this whole introvert self-love thing pretty challenging.
We regret to inform you…
I got a rejection notice today, and it sucks. You’d think I’d be wholly desensitized to being turned down the amount of times it’s happened, but no – the pang of disappointment still hurts. Seeing that tower I built in my head of what could have been crumble to the ground is never easy. More than once, it crosses my mind to never build such a tower again, to never want anything so bad, and definitely not ever try to get it. Because it’s sad, discouraging, and heartbreaking when those seeds of hope and desire don’t blossom to fruition. It just sucks. But I can’t lie, I have gotten much better at dealing with rejection.
It would be easy enough to blame it on my childhood. How I grew up under the (loving) dictatorship of a Jamaican mom who told us that “talking back” would have us taken out of this world by the very person who brought us in it: her. #GrowingUpCaribbean #GrowingUpBlack
Either way, this notion of speaking up to authority, airing out grievances, as something I could do – would have to do – seemed impossible up until a few weeks ago when I slipped on my big girl panties for one of the first times in 2016 and confronted somebody.