Out of the comfortable
One afternoon, I left my resignation letter on the general manager’s desk. She was my direct supervisor, so I expected a dressing down. After all, we were discussing developmental plans just that morning.
But I got a tight hug, the sort elders give you when you seem a little lost. My departure was dubbed “the end of an era.” My ego was massaged for 15 minutes. After listening to a litany on the uncertainty of freelancing, how I expected to support my mom that way, and why don’t I just take a sabbatical leave, I left the room with a funny feeling: What am I doing days before I turn 28, throwing everything away?
It was not a knee-jerk decision. I would like to think I suffered from chronic boredom, e-mails that hurt, hours that went on like eternity. I proposed ideas, projects and new multimedia content, and volunteered my time and talent for new things (which typically did not get the green light from higher-ups). I began shopping more than I should, because I was overcompensating for the tiredness in me. I was withdrawing from office friends. After three takes, I still scored high in that job-burnout self-assessment thing you find on the Web.
Almost five years into the job and not counting the honeymoon period (and the consecutive promotions as editor and Web copywriting lead), my days at work almost always sucked. To be fair to those who truly love and enjoy their job, I say it simply wasn’t for me.
I made room for compromise and forgiveness. I was, after all, only one of millions driven by aspirations (or social conditioning) to maintain a career and take part in the robust corporate workforce. My late father endured sh-tty desk work and bad bosses for decades. I wasn’t supposed to be questioning and should be content with the 13th- and 14th-month benefits and free gym membership. I should endure the soul-wrenching boredom because by smart calculations and interconnections, it prevents me from shelling out a few hundred pesos for ear-infection checkup, because health insurance saves the day.
I am whining and bluffing. The main reason I was not able to leave right away was no one else would hire me. I am a graduate of the University of the Philippines but it was not enough, there was something off with my interview, my skill set was limited to writing and editing—and what, no digital layout experience? There was one or two that offered me a job, but it was I who felt I was getting a shabby deal.
So I stayed, because I had a Plan B: Be my own boss. True meaning: Have different bosses, to whom I won’t be tied eight hours of every workday. Freelance. Set up a home office, and make use of the writing connections I have amassed over years of doing small gigs. Make room for what I love—books, travel, baking. Quit when I’m ready.
Ready I finally was when I qualified for a part-time, home-based content coordination position and asked existing clients for a little more stability as a creative contractor. I did not have a sizeable amount in my bank account, but I had enough for hospital emergencies and minor investments. I gathered my best works and created a portfolio that would command a second look, if not make me impressive.
I purchased a cheap office table and ergonomic chair, rearranged the furniture at home to condition myself psychologically that yes, it is finally happening, and no, I cannot slack off because this new, out-of-the-cold-cubicle world is real and it demands hard work.
I am writing this not out of some tacky pride in leaving a comfortable post where there are people, processes, tenure. On the contrary, I am stringing words together to approximate an honest assessment of where I am (it’s something with which many others my age and generation can identify).
I said goodbye to the legally mandated perks, the Christmas parties and sportsfests, and the teamwork. By deciding to swing it on my own, I recognized that I should always be on my toes to update my portfolio and pursue things aligned with what I believe in—passion projects, they call it. On the other hand, I now have some time, freedom and a flexible schedule; I no longer scramble for a reason not to stick my head in the pantry oven because of restlessness and a languid daily pace. I have dodged a carcinogen called rush-hour traffic. I no longer have to make excuses for the behavior of an office mate whose only common ground with me is a binding employment contract.
But then, of course, there’s the great wide unknown that’s scary and exhilarating at the same time.
There’s good and much to do in the world, I tell myself whenever the lack of societally dictated job security bugs me. If ever you find yourself in the same shoes, realize that not everything is lost. Five, 10 years down the road, what’s everything now may be next to nothing. Make a master plan, but consider the remaining fear and confusion a good starting place. Maybe it’s in the uncertain where comfort lies.
Katrina Anne Pascual, 28, is a journalism graduate of the University of the Philippines Diliman.
