‘Be *that parrot*’
Hey Babes,
It’s the end of the day, and I’m brewing oolong tea, trying to come down from it all. I think you know what I’m talking about, but just to make sure: What I mean by “it all” is the nagging obstacles, tasks, and bouts of insecurity that come with our new jobs.
You thought it would be something great — a welcomed career shift. A change of pace. A new landscape, blossoming with fresh opportunities and perspectives. The pay was also *chef’s kiss.*
Remember how incredibly drunk we got after you accepted the offer letter? (It was the only reason we were able to polish off those hellacious PR bottles of red vino from Snoop Dogg’s new wine label.)
There was so much joy that flooded that moment. A lot of that has evaporated away as of late.
Promises from upper management have now turned into drawn-out lies. The hybrid work model they hoped to have in place when you began hasn’t gotten off the ground yet.
You’re 32 years old and surrendering twice your age on gas money every week. There’s a stereotypical Karen-type on your team, who you want to (softly and quietly) push into Ocean Beach during king tides. The MacbookPro they gave you was clearly used before; there’s a small, unassuming chip on the edge of the palm rest that catches your bracelets.
You hate it. Like… you really hate it. And it’s OK to really, really hate it.
Why? Because you’re not defined by your job. We’re taught through antiquated value systems that our jobs should dictate our lives — and not the other way around.
This is bullshit. You’re so much more than this role… even if it continues consuming 50 hours of the 168 hours found inside every week. I cherish your kindness, empathy, ability to hold space, and levity above whatever savvy you have managing thousands-row Google Sheets.
Just as quickly as you found this job, you can find another one. Let’s not forget how effusive they were in making sure you took their offer before any other. That fact still remains true.
But again, you’re not your job. Companies don’t hug you back or go to a friend’s wedding with you as a plus-one or send “get better soon” cards when you’re sick. They’re faceless, soulless entities created as a byproduct of consumerism. You’re not tethered to them.
To edit a lyric from “I’M THAT GIRL” on Renaissance: Please, motherfuckers ain’t stopping [you].
Because they aren’t. You’re a sentient creature of holy proportions and multitudes. They — and that role you fill — are static, flat, unconscious objects designed around economic growth.
Want to quit, rn? Go for it. Want to take some time to figure out your next move, IRL? Take your time. You have my support, either way.
So long as you’re not organizing your life around dismay, I’ll be here with a glass of wine, a shoulder, and a playlist to suit whatever vibes pulsate that day.
Like San Francisco’s cherry-headed conures of Telegraph Hill, you’re resilient as all hell. Despite originating from a small flock released in the 1990s — catapulted into a wilderness 4,400 miles away from their natural habitats — they quickly found an ecological niche to fill. Since then, they’ve only continued to thrive and grow in number. They’re hardy. Like you.
I hope you know how wildly unique you are, and how grateful your friends and family are for you.
Be *that parrot.* You’ve got this.
With love,
_SF
