Seasons Change

On privilege, ambition, and the need to prove myself.

It’s almost mid-August.

In the middle of Canada where I live, the air is starting to have a familiar crispness.

Before my morning stretches and meditation, I find myself turning on the lamp and space heater. I still open my window, though, to let the cricket sounds in.

We had a solid two weeks of unusually hot weather, some days feeling like 32 degrees Celsius (89°F for my American friends).

I relish the hot days when going out for a walk only requires flip flops, a ball cap, and sunglasses.

Soon it will be 40 below (-40°F) and I’ll be adding pants to my pants just to go out for a walk.

Swapping my ball cap for a toque.

I like the ease of summer dressing. Not worrying about my hair because it lives in a ponytail or under a ball cap.

I wear less makeup in the summer. I don’t know if it’s because my tan gives me natural colour, or I just can’t be bothered because the summer has different expectations.

With our 9-year-old home on summer break, I take most of the summer off work. I don’t see clients or run programs. I find pockets of time to write, create, and dream. I still feel the pull to publish, to maintain some momentum. But I’m much better at letting that pressure be there without organizing my summer around it.

I refuse to set an alarm.

This wasn’t always the case.

I used to push myself harder in the summer because I had to fight for time to work. I’d work clients in around day camps and feel the constant need to be producing something.

Breaks were a luxury I thought I couldn’t afford.

Not in the way that sounds, though.

My husband has been the primary breadwinner in our family since our son was born. For years, I’ve been ashamed to admit that.

There was still financial pressure to succeed. I could see the strain it put on my husband, even though he never intentionally pressured me. And when we needed it, we had access to financing, which was another privilege in itself.

The privilege went beyond money.

I had time.

Time to fail. Time to reflect and heal. Time to decide something wasn’t right for me and try something different.

I was also doing the inner work of trying to understand myself and unravel old patterns. Did nothing feel right because it wasn’t right, or was I just continually sabotaging myself because I was afraid?

The thing about inner work though is that it’s invisible. I had no proof of the hard work: no big social media accounts, no launches. So I felt the need to compensate for it. As if suffering compensated for my privilege. As if that was even needed.

But there was something else at stake.

My identity.

Hard work had always been a part of my identity. And in my mind, it was part of the identity of a “real” entrepreneur, too.

Entrepreneurship was supposed to be hard. You struggled. You sacrificed. You earned your success.

I didn’t want it to look like I’d had it easy.

So I worked even harder. As an entrepreneur, busy work is easy when there’s always a website to rewrite. I figured if I worked harder, my business would eventually work. Because if my business wasn’t “working,” would it prove I just had a luxurious hobby?

Did people think I was lying on the couch eating peeled grapes all day?

“Must be nice.”

I was too afraid of what not working would say about me. So even when our family didn’t absolutely need me to work through the summer, I did.

~

It’s been an inner reckoning over the years as I slowly shed those old ideas.

My son’s grief therapist once told me kids are more natural with grief because they puddle jump. They can grieve someone one moment, and the next moment be laughing and asking for a snack.

That image always stuck with me.

My own reckoning has looked a lot like puddle jumping between proving my worth and just being.

Jumping into, “Who am I without the title or the salary?”

Jump, “What does it feel like to accept support?”

Jump back to performing. Producing.

Jump into feeling good enough just existing.

Jump.

~

With September on the horizon, I’m excited about getting back to a routine, my desk, and a shift in season.

September always feels like a fresh start. A time to reset goals, take aligned action.

I’ve loved the hot days, the precious time with our son, and the break in business pace.

But I’m ready for some uninterrupted workspace.

~

Here in Saskatchewan, we get four seasons. It’s true, three of them are pretty short, but I love the natural shifts in rhythm they each provide.

I sat down to write about that.

The air getting crisp. Trading shorts for pants.

And then 800 words later, I’m writing about the shame I carried around financial privilege and questioning the identity I built around entrepreneurship.

All from wanting to write about crisp air.

I think I’m allergic to simplicity.

My son recently asked me what my favourite colour was. My husband smiled and rolled his eyes.

“She can’t answer that.”

I laughed.

I can’t!

I need context and nuance.

Is it a colour I’ll wear? Is it a colour for wall paint? Is it a colour I’d use in a painting?

All those answers would be different!

Anyway, September is coming.

I’m going to enjoy my flip flops while I still can, because I know my snow boots will be calling me soon.

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If your work has gotten tangled up with your identity, this is for you: Safe To Be Seen