strange overtones
One morning last November, I had my boyfriend drop me off at the rapid station so I could head to a job interview for an administrative position at a family-owned law and accounting firm. I didn’t even know the name of the company I was interviewing for—all I had was an address that I hurriedly wrote down on a scrap piece of paper the day before while on the phone with someone from the office. I didn’t know what I was getting into, but when I saw the burgundy marble receptionist desk and the floor-to-ceiling wallpaper, I knew this professional endeavor would be anything but boring.
My first couple of months into the job, I had my own office. Now before you call me a girlboss, it’s important to note that the glamour of this situation quickly wore off due to a buzzing florescent light above my head (that was not fixed until several weeks ago, long after I moved to a different desk) and patterned wallpaper that would cause Charlotte Perkins Gilman to have a field day. My corporate soundtrack of Zoom and Slack notifications was replaced by the clacking of electric typewriter keys and the whir of a fax machine. Of all the places to end up after my stint in digital marketing, I found myself frozen in a different era—the choice to remain analog was based off of stubbornness and aesthetic preferences, similarly to a Wes Anderson film.
Soon enough, though, I felt the need to re-assimilate to the modern age and the Indeed app found its way back onto my iPhone.
Up until this year I’ve said “yes” to opportunities that I knew wouldn’t be a good fit for me in the long run—whether it be for financial reasons, wanting to make someone other than myself proud, or simply because I thought it would make a good story someday. Jokingly deeming myself the queen of self-sabotage has had bigger consequences than I expected. Saying “yes” instead of “no” has set me back emotionally, creatively, and even psychologically in so many ways.
When you live your life on a narrative arc, it can mess with your perception of success, or how you really feel about the choices you’re making. This year I noticed that I’m still tied down to my former selves—who I was in college, and even high school (and in those years my personality was more or less a combination of fictional characters I admired or things I wanted to be associated with)—but what I really want to know is who is this person now, in this moment? So when 2022 started, I set a goal to figure that out.
I can throw myself into big life changes, but I’ve kept myself from moving forward by being afraid of making smaller changes, even something as simple as dyeing my hair. I was born with naturally platinum blonde hair, and in eighth grade I wanted to be Nicole Kidman from Moulin Rouge. A walk to CVS and two boxes of hair dye later, that became my reality, as did months of stripping the color and frying my hair. For over a decade I vowed to never touch my hair again, but it became so much bigger than that. I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and panic whenever I saw a darker strand and self medicate with purple shampoo. For so long, my signature hair color was an investment in consistency to appease everyone else around me—and any curiosity I expressed about making a change was only met with the assertion that I’ve always been blonde. I was terrified of what would happen if I shed that expectation—until I booked the salon appointment in January. It felt revolutionary—I had finally done something for myself without being afraid of the consequences, or feeling the need to ask for advice or any kind of permission—want was the only reason and it was enough. And that feeling I had when I looked in the mirror at the salon and saw my new, darker hair color—has made all the difference in breaking my lifelong tendency to people-please (that, and meeting Fran Lebowitz in April after a long day of processing tax returns).
What makes a person successful? Markers of success have historically been rooted in superficiality—job, salary, relationship status, the car you drive (or, whether or not you have a driver’s license at all), the size of your house—but what about being able to advocate for yourself? What about having the ability to make decisions, however big or small, without being afraid of how people will feel about them, or you?
I started a new job a couple of weeks ago—a writing job that actually aligns with my past experience, and one that I feel good about accepting. I didn’t ask for anyone’s advice about whether or not I should take it—I went for it and it ended up working out. Before the excitement could truly set in, I had to give my notice—I’ve had this conversation multiple times over the years, and this was the first occasion I was met with anger rather than understanding. Despite this, I didn’t feel the need to apologize for causing an inconvenience or explain myself—I was confident in my decision to leave, and confident in the direction I was heading.
Last weekend, I went to a Taylor Swift dance party with my closest friends. Late into the night, sweat caked into my hair and my lipstick fading, my throat hoarse from scream-singing (and the adrenaline from espresso-infused tequila shots and strawberry White Claws still running through my veins)—the DJ yelled “Who here is in their reputation era?!” My friend grabbed me and said “THIS BITCH RIGHT HERE!” I laughed and screamed out in joy, feeling silly in the moment but also proud that this was the year I decided to do what I wanted instead of what was expected of me.
When we don’t advocate for ourselves, we aren’t being honest. People-pleasing has been my biggest affliction—because of it, I’ve been stuck in jobs that made me feel so burnt out to the point that I wouldn’t want to write for months at a time. I’ve experienced periods of misery to the point where I didn’t want to talk to or see anyone I cared about because I felt like I’d just be negative. I’ve been paralyzed by the fear of making others upset by changing my appearance or improving parts of my personality even if it was something I wanted or needed to do in order to make myself feel better. But at what cost? If we stay in the same place or mentality because it makes others comfortable, we keep ourselves from becoming who we’re supposed to be.
Maybe I’m not the person 16 or 21-year-old me envisioned—maybe I’m better, or worse. I’m making room for things I didn’t think I could do before—confidently sending Teams meeting invites, believing that I have everything I need to be good at what I’m doing, ordering espresso martinis at restaurants, taking romance novel recommendations from TikTok and enjoying them, rediscovering Taylor Swift in my mid twenties and listening to her so often that she becomes my top Spotify artist of the year.
I’ve dreaded summer every year due to its reputation as an in-between state—now I’m learning that I can start or stop something, become new again, at any time of the year—without anyone’s permission but my own.