“Nothing seems to faze you.”
My boss says this fairly regularly. I take it as a compliment.
At work, I’m confident. I lead more than a hundred people, help steer significant changes and give my honest opinion in senior leadership meetings. I’m comfortable making difficult decisions with imperfect information. I trust my judgement and the people around me.
I’m good at my job, and I know it. I’m happy doing it, too.
I enjoy getting into something interesting, questioning how we do things and seeing an idea become something useful. There’s satisfaction in helping someone tackle a problem, or reading a piece of work from the team that makes me think differently. I feel involved. I feel in control. I’m contributing.
Then the working day ends.
I work from home two or three days a week, so the distance between these two parts of my life can be quite small.
One Thursday before my recent holiday, I’d spent several hours in one-to-ones and finished with an update on a project I was enjoying. It had been a good day. Afterwards, there was another evening on my own to fill.
I dragged myself out to walk the dogs, begrudgingly, then settled into television and scrolling on my phone. Dinner was chips and chicken dippers from the freezer. I love cooking and have happily spent a whole day feeding twenty people. That evening, I couldn’t summon the enthusiasm to make myself a decent meal.
More television. More scrolling. Eventually, bed and a sleep podcast, because otherwise I’d lie there feeling miserable and as though I was wasting my life.
I hadn’t joined those two parts of the day up before. I just knew I looked forward to work because it broke up the monotony of everything else. I’m glad I enjoy my job. I’d like my personal life to offer it a bit more competition.
At work, I’ve had years to learn what I can contribute. There’s a reason for the conversations, a purpose to what I’m doing. People need my help, and I can ask for theirs. I know I have a place.
With friends, I can go days without a message unless I reach out. An unanswered call or a slow reply can leave me feeling forgotten. I know people are busy and that they care about me, but I still worry they don’t particularly want to hear from me. So I hesitate to get in touch, which does wonders for keeping the conversation going.
When I’m low, I’m also afraid they’ve heard it all before. I’m sick of finding myself back here; surely they must be sick of it too? These days, friends rarely bring their problems to me, which makes asking for help feel one-sided. At work, I get to be useful as well as need things. Personally, I can feel like a burden.
Recently, I downplayed how bad I was feeling to one of my oldest, closest friends. We’ve supported each other through plenty, yet I couldn’t quite admit it. The next day I texted him the truth. Somehow I can write words I struggle to say aloud.
He took me seriously, raised difficult questions and told me he was proud of me. Having him ask what he could do to help eased the worry a little. I still find it hard to open up, but at least someone knows. He’s since become this blog’s first subscriber. I’m taking that as a good sign.
I recognise some of that hesitation at work, too. At an event full of strangers, I can take extended toilet breaks, spend far too long making tea or pretend to work on my phone while wondering how to join a conversation. Give me one or two people and a reason to talk, and I’m fine.
Meanwhile, put me on stage with a bass guitar and I’m happy. A bit of a show-off, if I’m honest. My confidence has some specific terms and conditions.
Building this blog has brought some familiar satisfaction into my own time. I spent fourteen hours on it over a weekend, getting past the initial frustration and into the pleasure of learning, trying ideas and seeing something I was making for myself come to life. I was already planning weeks ahead, adding things I knew I’d want later.
What stayed with me was how keen I was to get back to it. I went to bed thinking about it and woke up wanting to carry on. Something going round in my head at night that I was actually pleased about.
I’d like more of that feeling in my own time. More company, too. An ordinary evening with someone to talk to would suit me just fine.
I’m still figuring out why these parts of my life feel so separate. The satisfaction at work and the loneliness elsewhere are both real. I’m glad I have a working day I look forward to.
I’d like to feel that way about more of the hours around it.
What’s something outside work you always look forward to getting back to? Tell me in the comments.