A year and almost a month ago, I quit my "real" job in the hopes of... what?  I'm not sure exactly but I recall hoping for things like finding myself, discovering my passion, etc.  I feel less wound up and like a lot of the tension I accumulated over eleven-plus years of fast-paced work has dissipated, but I'm still at a loss when it comes to what's next.  For one thing, I am finding that my formerly idealized stint in the nonprofit world is less than what I'd hoped for.  I am earning less than what I made the day I graduated from college in 1999 and am doing things that are better suited for someone a lot younger (and with far more physical energy!) than I have at this point.  I'm exhausted, I feel like I'm not using any of my skills, and I miss making enough so that I wasn't dipping into savings to pay for bare-bones insurance coverage.  I miss full medical with dental and vision...

What comes next?  I spent another hour in therapy (that I really can't afford) beating myself up for not being satisfied with what I'm doing and for having no idea what I'd rather be doing instead.  I left so upset that when it was half an hour until the next bus I just grabbed a cab (oh, not financially responsible in the current situation, no!) instead and made it my mission to get home from the day 12 hours and 15 minutes after I left in the morning for work, rather than 12 hours and 45 minutes.  I told the cab driver (who just happened to be a very adorable, young man with a fabulous foreign accent) where I was headed and he said, "When you say it that way we'll go any way you want."  In my emotionally susceptible (to say the very least) state, I felt like I'd been rude and just burst into tears.  He tried to explain that he meant that he liked the directness and that I was actually very sweet but I couldn't stop sobbing.  

The ten minute ride home was the actual therapy of the day.  This taxi driver proceeded to tell me I'm as "young as a button" and not to worry but to look ahead to the next thing.  "You think I want to drive a cab forever?  No!  I don't even like it-- who does?!"  He made me laugh and I told him he'd pretty much made my day, and not just for saying I was young either.  As he drove away he waved and smiled and reminded me not to be a taxi driver.  Noted.

I suppose there's no real point to this entry except to reflect on the fact that despite feeling like I'm stuck, I'm worlds from where I was a year ago.  Change takes time, 35 isn't so old, and my job is (thank goodness) temporary and over in 35.5 days.  Great learning experience, nice people, but not the thing for me.  On to the next...

Putting the Third-of-life Crisis into Perspective: Buddhism

The search for guidance during my mid-thirties reinvention recently led me to begin "The Way to Freedom: Core Teachings of Tibetan Buddhism" by His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  Last night brought me to the chapter on Death, which opened in part with "of all the different kinds of awareness, awareness of impermanence and death is best" and continued with "of all the people we know or have seen, none will remain in one hundred years."  This filled me with both a sense of relief and with feelings of poignant sadness.  It all matters because we're blessed to have the chance to exist but it (we ourselves, those we love, the world as we know it) will be gone in the blink of an eye.

I won't lie and say I'm not afraid of dying, though perhaps that means I've got some spiritual growth to attend to.  The truth is that when I try to get a grip on what it means to die and the fact that it will happen, I'm terrified.  It feels like my brain is somewhat incapable of imagining its own physical death.  My own fear and difficulty in wrapping my head around death itself along with imagining the loss of everyone I love is painful and sad.  Despite this, however, there is a flip side.  Realizing such total inevitable loss makes me feel both like "I am so lucky to have right now" and as if "none of the worldly stuff is going to matter not too long from today."  It's pretty crazy when you think about it: We live knowing that no matter what we do it will all be gone, all be over... soon.  For me that makes the important things seem pretty obvious.

Is it morbid to use death as a constant reminder that provides life perspective?  Or is it true, as the Dalai Lama says, that "if you reflect upon death and impermanence, you will begin to make your life meaningful"?  The best moments I have of late are the ones when, despite uncertainty or petty annoyances or sadness, I'm able to appreciate the brevity of things.  Does it really matter whether or not I find my life's passion in my next career or achieve some level of "success" again when everything is so fleeting anyway?  Is it wise to worry about "figuring it all out" at the expense of missing the things I'm so lucky to have (i.e. friends, family, significant other) right now?

A common thread between quarterlife, third-of-life, and midlife (or any-phase-of-life!) crises is the realization that we're not immortal and that the "someday" we've always been striving for, working for, and sacrificing for may not arrive before we die.  It's the "is this really my life?" feeling.  It's the feeling that the whole thing may just pass us by.  Could remembering how brief each of our life moments are in the massive span of time remind us, even during mundane day-to-day existence, how incredibly lucky we are just to be here?  Could that help alleviate some of the angst of the "x-of-life" crises?

"O Magazine" Syndrome

The only magazines I currently subscribe to are "The Vegetarian Times" and "O- The Oprah Magazine". Both provide monthly information, inspiration, and escape and bring me to my happy place-- which is where I am when reading anything.  Since I've embarked on my life change and third-of-life adventure, however, I've noticed a disturbing effect of "O" on my psyche.  Rather than feel inspired by stories of talented, creative, courageous women who have found their passion, started over, or reinvented themselves, I find myself feeling like... well, a loser. 

When I quit my job and walked away from being "successful", I did so with dreams of discovering my passion.  I would finally live on my own terms, find bliss, infuse each day with meaning!  I was tired of feeling like a slave to the "shoulds" and like I didn't know what I was working so hard for anyway.  I fantasized about starting something of my own and maybe even doing something to make the world better or to leave some sort of a legacy.  It is now eight months later and I still have absolutely no idea what I want to be when I grow up.

In "O", I've read about 1) a woman who fled corporate life to start a very successful llama farm, 2) another who stumbled into making delicious gourmet soda in Hawaii (also very successful), and 3) about another who makes personalized aprons to honor the legacy of her beloved grandmother (again, all went well with the endeavor).  If these women in their 20s, 30s, 40s, and beyond can figure out how to follow their bliss and make a living doing so, shouldn't I be able to do it too?  No pressure, right?!  I want so badly to be the woman who always loved cheese, took a class, discovered a latent cheese-making talent, learned that there was a goat farm in New Zealand that went back ten generations in her family, moved to said farm to make artisan goat's milk curds, and lived happily ever... but I'm not. 

One challenge of the third-of-life crisis is to figure out who I am after avoiding developing an identity because the job/title/social life always provided one for me before.  What do I do to both make a living and to make life about really "living"?  How do I embrace the adventurous spirit of the "O" women of self-reinvention rather than feeling defeated by others' success stories?

What does it mean to be a "successful" woman?

When I fled the corporate world, I was lucky to have a friend who allowed me to work in his two San Francisco wine bars.  I'd never worked in the service industry before and I suddenly found myself serving women who bore an uncanny resemblance to the person I'd been mere months before.   I hate to admit it, but I was shocked at how affected I was by being treated as "just the bartender".  It wreaked havoc on my sense of identity and made me realize how much my self esteem had been built upon being "successful".

As the months have passed, I've done a lot of thinking about about "success".  Super-stylish women of the city come in together after work to chat about promotions, dating escapades, workouts, and travel plans.  I hear them one-upping each others' accomplishments as each flashes an engagement ring bigger than the next.  It all looks so perfect and glamorous but I know the truth because in a sense I used to be these women and I was not happy.  When I earned a big salary, had "senior" in my title, and looked the part, I was falling apart inside.  Traveling constantly, making it to the gym 4-5 times per week, dating, and maintaining an active social life left me feeling empty and exhausted.  I "had it all", but I didn't have the sense of meaning and connection that I craved.  So why, when I see people doing what I did, does it make me feel like such a... nothing?

I think this can partially be explained because I have yet to figure out what to replace my former life with.  Leaving the corporate world has been a lot like ending a relationship in that often times you really ache for who or what you left behind until the void is filled by a new love (or vocation or identity).  I believe that once I find a new direction in which to focus my energy and passion, reminders of the life I left behind will no longer feel so threatening so my sense of self. 

If leaving the corporate world after burnout is like leaving an unhealthy relationship, what is the best way to move on?  How does a woman in her mid-thirties who now lacks a prescribed identity and the outwards signs of "success" (i.e. title, salary, wedding band, kids) create a new life of meaning?

The Burnout

Up until eight months ago, I was "successful".  I graduated from a great school (UC Berkeley) in 1999 and proceeded into on a high-paying, stable career.  I was a high performer at work, ate a healthy pescatarian diet, enjoyed ladies nights with a close circle of friends, dated the "right" men, and worked out  4-5 times per week (including weight training to promote and maintain bone mass, of course).  I traveled up to 85% of the time for work, maintained a full social calendar, and continued to strive for the next great thing on my list of things I "had to" accomplish (i.e. an even more fabulous apartment in San Francisco, a promotion, more lean body mass).  Then, in November of 2010, I burned out.

One Sunday afternoon, as I sat watching "Elf", the floor dropped out from under me.  I suddenly felt as if I'd been hurled off the top of a roller coaster; my stomach lurched, my heart started pounding, and my extremities went numb.  I never even took Advil if I could avoid it, but I was so scared that I headed to the ER where I remember telling the nurse, "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I think I'm dying."  The hours I spent as the panic attack was diagnosed were the scariest of my life.  Every time the monitor changed color, I was sure it meant that my heart had stopped and I begged my boyfriend to fetch the doctor.  I sat helpless on the hospital bed bargaining for my life.  Some thoughts I remember having:

"None of what I've gotten myself so stressed out about (i.e. the salary, the "success") matters."
"I've wasted my time and I haven't helped anyone."
"What if one of my loved ones ends up like this without anyone there?"
"I'm not ready."
"I want one chance to eat pizza and to enjoy it without mentally punishing myself... and now I can't.  I wasted my life's pizza."

I attempted to return to my normal routine Monday morning, but I struggled with chest pain and other physical symptoms for months.  In June 2011, I quit my job and began the process of figuring out what to do next.  I was 34 and in full-fledged third-of-life crisis!