Backstory
What was it that led me here, to what some might call a mid life crisis of confidence? Well, there was no grand revelation, but there was a medical emergency. My husband Danny had a stroke--or, as we came to understand it, a trans ischemic attack--at age 44. Just like that, I was sleeping in the stroke ward at the Foothills Hospital while Danny received round the clock care. I sat there one day as he was napping, staring out the window and wondered with a jolt what the hell I was doing.
You see, the stroke took place the end of what was by then a pretty standard 65 hour work week for me. I was a tenure-track professor at a top research university. The week typically began with me declaring an intention to honor work-life boundaries and to put in no more than 45 hours. I’d get up early on Monday to tackle the hour-long commute and be at my desk by 8:00am. As the day progressed, the work I had committed to completing that day would be slowly be obliterated by ad-hoc meetings, a deluge of email, unexpected visits to my office, and reactive problem solving for any issues that came up. As the clock ticked toward late afternoon, I would realize that there was no hope of making a dent in all of the backlog sitting on my desk. So, I would call home and negotiate my first late night that week, rationalizing that my work-at-home spouse could manage the day to day labor of making meals, shuttling children, and the like. I might walk through the door at 9 or 10pm, watch an episode of The Crown on Netflix, and fall in to bed.
Then, rinse and repeat for the rest of the week. If I didn’t stay late in the office one evening, I’d take my work home with me. I’d be the mom grading papers at baseball practice or the spouse proof-reading an academic paper while watching a movie on date night. I’d jot down research plans on paper napkins at the McDonalds drive-through, or disguise an hour of searching scholarly resources as “me time” at Starbucks. The permeable and ambiguous nature of knowledge work at the academy ensured that tasks were never quite complete, and I didn’t know how to draw boundaries around my work that would allow me to leave it in my office for the night.
I had also struggled to find a foothold in academia. I had historically been considered a bit of rock-star in academic circles: I was an award-winning researcher, a coveted teacher, and a sought-after contributor to a variety of scholarly societies. I was good at my job and driven by an unrelenting work ethic. But, I felt challenged to find aspects of the work that were intrinsically rewarding. I found that I didn't actually like what I was doing. This was a rude awakening, and I felt very put out by it. After all, I had always made my decisions without a shadow of doubt. How could I possibly be on the threshold of tenure (which is a very difficult place to get to) and fail to bask in my accomplishments? I realized, with a degree of horror, that I didn't even like the discipline I had chosen.
I had worked towards achieving my position with unparalleled drive, and if we back up in time a bit, I had approached my entire life that way (not just the work stuff). I realized as I was sitting in the stroke ward with Danny that I had spent all of my time as an adult striving towards an outcome that made me incredibly unhappy. All of the struggle: making ends meet while I was a Masters and PhD student; parenting in alignment with my values while working more than full time; attempting to feel balanced while giving up all semblance of self care so that I could accomplish everything that I thought I needed to. What had it all been for?
As this washed over me while I sat in the stroke ward, I experienced a rather intense moment of grief and regret. However, I was so numbed by the circumstances at the time that I parked it. After a couple of months of care at home, Danny recovered from the stroke, I went back to work, and life went on.
Something had shifted in me, though. I became highly sensitized to the the misalignment that seemed to characterize my existence, and that of my family. Layered on top of my recognition about the lack of meaning and purpose in my life were several other factors contributing to our collective discontent: illness in our family exacerbated by environmental conditions where we lived; our difficulty finding like minded peers that we resonated with; Danny's struggle to find arts or culture-focused work in a corporate-driven community; harsh weather patterns that exhausted us; a school system that didn't jive with our kids' needs; and provincial political dynamics that disheartened us. It was the confluence of these factors that led to our decision to quit our jobs, sell everything, and move to the west coast. We had a unique opportunity to forge a new beginning.
Naively, I assumed that the fresh start would lead seamlessly to me figuring my stuff out. It didn't. I found myself with a great deal of time on my hands, and I experienced a parallel degree of anxiety about what I should be doing. I spent a lot of time in my pajamas, and watched a lot of mindless reality television. My mood became extremely low. By the time my own 44th birthday rolled around in November 2019, I felt a profound despair. I had always known the answer, always been a do-er; now, I could barely decide what to make for supper. I desperately wanted to be walking through life in a way that mattered - both to myself and others, but I was horribly stuck. By year's end, I had made up my mind that I would solve this conundrum the only way I knew how: with research. I have decided to guide this journey with curiosity, and to use my research chops to answer my most pressing questions.
This is The Significance Project.
