"Mom, am I a loser?"

And other questions I keep asking myself lately

By the end of this week, I will be unemployed.

Again.

After two years of working as a publicist, I’m once again entering that negative space where every day feels a little bit like you are dreaming and can’t remember the last time you woke up. It is discombobulating and frightening, and, in this economy, did I mention frightening?

Last week, I asked my mum if she was disappointed in me. What a ridiculous question! she exclaimed. How could you even ask that? I am proud of you all the time.

I know this to be true because my parents are very good at bragging about my sister and me. I have the world’s best support group in my corner, who I know will always be there when I need them. But it doesn’t stop the self-doubts from arising. In two months, I’ll be turning 25, and I just can’t help but feel like… well, a loser.

I have had very big dreams since I was very small. I was going to be a marine biologist, a cafe owner, a chef, a doctor, a business owner. I wanted to have accolades, I wanted to feel important, and I wanted to know deep down that my work was important. I wanted to help people, but in what capacity?

If I was to spend the rest of my life working, why wouldn’t I do something that I love?

Only maybe once or twice in my life have I thought, “A job is just a job.” But building my career has always been about what I am making of myself. What am I going to call myself? What am I going to put my entire self into, passionately and without hesitation? What can I say I did at the end of my life?

In high school, I told everyone I was a photographer, an artist, and eventually, a writer. Only one of those stuck. I was a self-assured writer. A writer who wrote poetry in her room at night and posted on her Instagram, a writer who stayed up until dawn working on very plot-driven, detailed fanfictions. A writer who dreamt of seeing her name on the front of hardcovers in a Barnes and Noble window display. A writer who cried when she saw a poem she wrote published in an online publication for the first time and told literally everyone that she was a published poet.

When I began writing as a journalist, I told myself that, until that day, I was only a writer in spirit. “Today, I am a professional writer.”

And when I quit, I had a very similar identity crisis that I’m facing now.

If I can’t call myself a writer or a publicist, what am I?

It’s widely known that one of the most prevalent conversation starters for Americans is this horrid question: “What do you do?”

This question implicates a correlation between work and identity. In asking, “what do you do,” we are implying to one another that your answer will determine the ways in which I will henceforth base my opinion of you. This question automatically begins to classify us within subset groups of economic proportions that we already hold to certain standards. “What do you do” places you in categories that do not necessarily define who you are, but nonetheless will make me think that I know who you are because of what you do.

So when someone asks me, “what do you do?” I have the following answers, which may or may not change the way you see me:

• a writer = either cool and artistic, or a loser

• a graduate student = probably didn’t know what else to do with herself

• a former publicist and journalist = an unemployed loser

Not a lot to work with, as you can see.

Why do I put my identity into what I do for work?

This is a question I don’t have an answer to. Not now. Probably not for many years, as I think therapy will be required, and I cannot afford it now. But it is something I have thought about for a long time.

A little girl used to sit at a table and think big dreams. She used to dream about herself as a busy woman—busy, but content. A woman who had her hands in projects that made her happy. A woman who stoked the fires of creative industry, which meant making a difference in the world around her and making a name for herself. A woman who loved what she did, held her title close to her chest with pride, and told people, “I am a _____,” to which those people would often respond, “Wow! Amazing. You are definitely not a loser.”

It’s odd to sit at the precipice of a quarter of my life being lived. I can’t help but think about that little girl. She wasn’t actually that long ago. At only 25, I have already done so much. For so long, I have charged ahead. I am entering a period of hesitation now; of uncertainty and unknown. A “what now?” moment that is both frightening and exciting. I feel both extremely worried and extremely at peace. Like the world is my oyster, but also, have I ever tried oysters before? What if I throw up? What if I’m allergic or something?

Okay, so the metaphor got a little lost, but you get the picture.

I don’t know how to let go of the notion that I should not be unemployed at 25. It is hard to accept, but at the same time, I’m trying to be grateful for the opportunity to rest that I am being given. This economy, this workforce, this society, it’s just hard right now. I have been affected by some unfortunate outcomes, but deep in my soul, I know I’m not a loser.

I have spent so much time trying to control everything, and maybe this was God’s way of saying, “Take a breather. You have no idea what I have planned for you.”

So what do I do?

I will try to rest. I’ll be going to study at Oxford this summer and I won’t have to worry about any other responsibilities. I study great literature, I read lots of great books, and I write, write, write. I’m working on some novels of my own. I apply to jobs, I sit outside, I go for walks, I laugh, I cry, I hug my family, I kiss my dogs. I become a better daughter, sister, friend, and partner. I work on healing old wounds, feeling proud of myself, and getting closer to the Lord. I will trust that my path is being written.

I feel my soul awakening, blossoming like a flower in the sun, and I breathe deeply, and I get to know myself again, and I dream.