Elizabeth C. Haynes

I’ve spent the last few days finishing up a redo of my business website—the one that promotes my digital marketing services. It took weeks to complete because of my ongoing procrastination, so it seemed appropriate to step back and examine this unusual reluctance to work on something that’s mine. And in doing that, I got super honest with myself: I really don’t want to work in my field anymore.

It’s an unsettling moment when you realize you no longer want to do the thing you’ve built your life and livelihood (and business!) around. In fact, I was just getting really good at my job after spending almost a year being in charge of everything. It wouldn’t make much sense to walk away from something that I do well and that pays me well, right?

But I’ve been graced with a break over the last few months. I was on medical leave for my health issues first, which created a lot of thinking time on the sofa, and then I became unemployed and transitioned into the thoughtfulness of pandemic life. And I find that I’m exponentially happier now that I’m away from my job despite the swirl of uncertainty about what lies ahead.

I took a walk several months ago (well maybe it was a good six to eight months ago; the pandemic has distorted everything) and I remember making a pact with myself. I told myself that by the time I turned 40, I was going to be done with corporate America for good. I had no idea how to make it happen and also had no idea that I’d be unemployed anyway just six months before said birthday, but I set it as an intention and decided I’d figure it out in the coming months.

I took another important walk a few weeks after that. It was a late-morning speedwalk meant to disperse a buildup of negative energy and frustration about things going on at work, and about fifteen minutes in, as I rounded a corner while lost in thought, I started screaming inside of my head, “I HATE business!” I continued those screams, with my fists clenched and my eyes wide, for probably a good thirty seconds before heading home with tears rolling down my face.

I knew my truth. It was coming through loud and clear.

I think each of us already knows our truth if we just listen carefully. It’s not always what we want to hear because it can contradict our lifestyles or our plans, so sometimes we ignore the quiet voices until we end up having a breakdown on the sidewalk on a random weekday morning. Then we go home with our hands still shaking, and we tell our spouses that we just cannot keep going like we are and that we’ve got to find an exit route. And then we cry some more.

I deployed my new website into the world today despite all of the above, because it cost a lot of money to create and because I need it as a sort of insurance policy in case finances get worse. But beyond that, I plan to just let it sit out there like a business card that I can pull up and share on demand if I need to. I think it’s finally time to walk away if I can, since I’ve reached the point of screaming inside my own head.

From a logic (and logistical) perspective, however, this seems like a really dumb thing to do. I have a ton of experience and I actually really know my stuff, so I’ve spent a lot of time trying to convince myself that it wouldn’t be all that bad if I just took a part-time gig that paid well and then did whatever I wanted on my own time. And then I think about the last decade of my existence, and how the continued drudgery of corporate work hampered my progress as an artist.

I remember how I’d wanted to set my Fridays aside for writing but that it pretty much never happened. My paid clients consumed every single weekday despite my best efforts, and the intense copywriting I had to do for them often stole every last bit of my creative energy. I had nothing left for myself.

I also remember how my creativity always dried up and cracked like scorched earth when I was subjected to work I didn’t want to do—even small bits of it—because the negative emotions snuffed out all of the other parts of me. I think I’ve spent so many years in jobs I’ve disliked that even a small dose of one makes me recoil on all levels now. I become paralyzed and sink into a heavy depression.

So I can’t help but ask myself, do I really want to spend another decade of my life feeling broken simply because I didn’t have the courage to finally let go of my established career?

This decision isn’t easy, of course. Right now we have a pile of bills and I still haven’t heard if I’m going to get unemployment. But then I also want to vomit when I think about going back to what I was doing a few months (and a few years) ago. In fact, the “not wanting to go back” is a lot more powerful than the “not having money to pay bills” at this moment in my life, and I think it keeps me grounded on my more fearful days.

When I made the vow during walk #1 that I’d be out of corporate America by age 40, I didn’t understand that what I actually meant was I wanted to be out of corporate activities by age 40—out of marketing, out of tech writing, out of social media (except for my own use), and out of anything related to making money for a business. Because, remember? I hate business (walk #2).

I’m trying really hard to be okay with that decision despite the recent loss of money on my website and the ongoing uncertainty about finances. But I have to let go of what was in order to make space for what could be. There’s no other way forward if I want to finally change my life. So let’s say it together now:

We have to let go of what was in order to make space for what could be.

And what could my life be? Well, I know that I’d like for my literary magazine to take off and for my book to sell. I know that I’d like to spend my days alternating between my publication and my personal creative projects, which would allow me to make my living in an authentic way by doing the things that feel right to my soul.

Sometimes we’re forced make hard decisions when we’ve hit rock bottom with our health or our emotions or our jobs (or all three, like I recently did). Letting go of who we used to be could mean we lose a little—or a lot—financially or otherwise. But I think this losing is temporary if we’re following what we believe is right for us. I think we lose more of ourselves by staying on the wrong path, even as our bank accounts grow and our prestige increases, than we do by taking a risk to make a change. And that’s what I’m holding my hopes on today: that I’ll lose a little by letting go of what was, and gain a whole lot by reaching for what could be.

​What about you? Could you dare to step out of the life you used to have, and into the life you truly want to live?

Have you ever sat around and pondered what you might like your second act to be?

Maybe you’ve never even thought about it beyond a dream because you feel constrained by the life chapter you’re in. Maybe you feel too old or too beaten. Maybe you lack the courage, or maybe you can’t even admit to that yet.

But who says you can’t rewrite your own book? Become your own hero? Change your life story?

I think often about what I want my second act to be, actually. I recently turned 39 and I’ll tell you what happened when I did. I was laying alone under my fluffy down comforter with my back propped up against the headboard, as I always do because my husband is a night owl. The clock on my phone had just hit midnight and so the date had flipped to November 10.

And as all of this happened, I decided to text my husband to tell him that I was officially a year older (I know, I know…but he goes upstairs to unwind at night and it’s just too hard to hear each other). I wrote my text and hit send, and then I just stared at the phone for a bit. Or maybe at the comforter? I don’t remember because I was really staring through whatever physical form was in my gaze.

This was all broken by the sound of his feet on the stairs and his squishy house shoes moving across the living room floor. He’d come down to wish me a happy birthday and to give me a hug, and I looked at him with one of those brave, fake smiles. And then I cried.

Not a disgusting, loud cry but more of a whimper with a quiet tear. And then it changed into a timid sob that I tried to beat down lest it turn into an all out bawl. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I’d said to him with my face pressed into his chest, “except that I’m getting older and time is passing and I don’t want it to run out.”

Or something like that. It was late and my memories get jumbled these days when I’m up late.

I have a second act in mind that I hope I achieve before my days run out, but I’ve been reading a lot lately about how to stay present and find contentment right where I am. I’m realizing that anything I dream about for the future or am haunted by from the past are all constructs. They’re all things that I hope will happen but that don’t exist, or things that happened before but are over now. What’s real is what’s happening right at this very second, and that’s where my focus should be most of the time.

And this is sort of how I’m approaching the whole idea of having a second act. It might eventually exist and I can strive to make that happen, but I don’t need to pine for it or bemoan my present circumstances such that I can’t ever be happy in the “now” because I’m not yet where I want to be. Think of how much life you waste on negative feelings about a future that hasn’t even been written (or a past that’s long gone), while not being fully present in what is actually your life.

I think that one of the keys to a successful second act lies in thinking about it from the perspective of how you can contribute to the world. It’s not about bettering your own existence, although that should be a natural byproduct of getting onto the right path, but it’s about what you can do with your talents and vision to help make the world better. It’s the reason you came here at all.

And then once you figure that part out, you should work diligently toward that dream if you didn’t get it right the first (or fifth) time around. This requires putting a strong intention out there, working hard, and waiting to see how life unfolds. This is also where it’s important to listen to your gut as you make decisions.

These days I go through this process by first asking the universe for help in attaining my dreams. I put them out there on a regular basis, making sure my asks are for a greater good and not for my own personal gain (financial or otherwise), and then I continue making small efforts toward achieving those goals.

​In between all of that I take time to get quiet. I watch. I observe. I listen for direction and stay alert for feelings in my gut. I pay attention to doors that open, or to people who show up, or to situations that occur. I look for ways to use each experience to work toward the dreams that I have.

​I also try to make peace with whatever happens to be my present story, because I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be even when some days feel like utter catastrophe.

Life provides us with clues to our purpose and quiet guidance for our lives every single day. We just have to learn how to listen with our hearts and spirits instead of with our ears and minds. I’ve only recently learned how to do that, and my life trajectory is starting to change. That second act is finally on the horizon and I think I’ll get there soon.

Are you ready to find yours?

This past Monday night I did something I’ve wanted to do since I was probably six years old – I went to my first pottery class. Why it took me until almost age thirty-nine to get there I don’t know, but I suppose it was a mix of ambivalence and fear. And a poor sense of priorities as I battled against my obligations. You know how that goes.

When I was in elementary school my dad bought me a mini pottery wheel that I’d asked for at some point in the fall, either for my birthday (in November) or for Christmas. It was just a little toy that probably couldn’t make anything worth anything, but I was so excited to finally have it as my first introduction to ceramics. The problem was, it required clay or some other part that I didn’t have (and that my mother couldn’t afford), so I waited for a few days until I was to visit my dad for the weekend. He could fix my problem and I could be on my way.

I remember only a little bit about this particular day – one that is so poignant in my life story. I remember my dad coming to get me as he always did. I remember gathering a few things and bounding out the front door, my new pottery wheel in hand. I wanted to be extra careful with it by holding it tight, my young brain reasoned. I didn’t want to put it back in the box.

And then I remember that before I even made it to the burglar bars enclosing my mother’s front porch, I dropped that pottery wheel onto the concrete in a dramatic smash. It cracked. It wouldn’t turn on anymore. It was irreparable and I knew it immediately.

And then I cried heavy, heavy tears.

I never got another pottery wheel, so I just filed my interest away somewhere and let it simmer as I moved through adolescence and young adulthood. I would go on to try different things like decoupage and photography and crochet before being lost in the drama that is being a teenager. And as an adult I’d learn to cook and bake, and to create beautiful (and mostly edible) things out of nothing but a few bare ingredients. But I never forgot about pottery.

​”Some day,” I would say to myself.

When I had a complete and total meltdown a few weeks back (about my life and my career and my struggle with time), my husband eventually asked me what all I still wanted to do that I didn’t seem to have time for. And one of the first things I’d said was that I still wanted to take a pottery class. I’d also said I wanted time to watch my handful of shows on Netflix (The Kominsky Method, Grace and Frankie), and to watch my old black and white movies on TCM, and to have a garden, and to learn how to sew again.

“Let’s start with the non-TV stuff,” he said.

Within a day I’d looked up pottery classes near me, but the problem was that most of them took place during the day – and I’m the sort of person who has to, you know, work a job during the day. I finally found a school that had evening classes but was disappointed to see that they were all waitlisted. Okay, I thought to myself, as soon as the next paycheck comes in I’ll pay my $50 to get put on the waitlist.

Two weeks or so passed. I could have paid the $50 before the paycheck, by the way.

In the midst of yet another breakdown, which I’ve been having on the regular lately, I decided that this was it. No more stalling. No more fear. It was a Sunday evening and I went to the website to sign up. I looked at the calendar and clicked on the Monday night option (ages sixteen to adult) so that I could get on the list. “This class has one spot open,” it read. I blinked. Really? It wasn’t waitlisted any longer? ALL of the pottery classes were waitlisted. Maybe it had opened up to me because it was time?

But when I submitted my information to try to pay for the class, the nice computer rejected me with a message that said I was going to be put on a waitlist. Disappointed, I clicked “OK” and prepared to wait until my time came. Then I put down my smartphone and stumbled backward into the blackness that I’d been swimming around in. It had been so, so heavy lately.

The next day, with the fog of those emotions still heavy on my heart, someone from the school emailed me to apologize for the incorrect system message – there was, in fact, an opening. And would I like to go ahead and pay? I would have 48 hours to decide or they would release the spot to someone else.

I hesitated for a moment. Isn’t that the silliest thing we do as humans? We long for something and then we’re at the cusp of getting it, and we shrink backward in fear or self-doubt. It took me about an hour to overcome that discomfort but I pushed through, paid the first month’s tuition plus a $50 deposit in case I bailed mid-month, and timidly called the number to ask if I was to show up that night or to wait a week.

“Oh yes you can come tonight if you like,” a nice man told me in a slight accent. “Or you can wait a week. It’s up to you, but we have you signed up.”

“Okay. Well I guess I’ll come tonight. What do I wear? What do I do? I don’t know what to bring with me.”

“Let me forward you an email the teacher sends out for her new classes. It’ll give you more info about what to bring and when to show up. I definitely wouldn’t wear any clothes you’re attached to! And bring an old towel and an apron if you have one. We have some here but they’re first come, first serve.”

I read the email he forwarded me. I got my old clothes together, and my old towel. I paced a little bit until it was time to go and then I hugged my husband, who told me to at least act excited. But coming into situations where I’m the only new person is extremely uncomfortable for me. I feel like there’s a spotlight on my head and the old shyness of my youth comes back as if it had never left. My immediate reaction is to panic and want to flee.

I drove through the cold and rain to that rickety old 150-year-old house that had been converted into an art school. I parked my car, fumbled my way inside the door, figured out where I was supposed to be, and did okay in the end. The teacher – probably in her early twenties – got me settled in a corner and I plodded my way through my first experience with clay.

And it was glorious.

Now, I don’t think things are glorious very often. I don’t use that word ever. But the experience I’d built up in my head since the day I’d smashed my mini pottery wheel was pretty much exactly what I thought it would be. The feeling of the clay between my hands was exactly as I’d imagined. It was as difficult as I thought it would be, and as easy as I thought it would be, too.

And so what I see now is that I came into that studio depressed, lost, cold, sad. And as I sat there and let the wet clay run through my hands, my fingers depressing it in the middle and then later pulling up the walls, all of those feelings just melted away. I even lost track of time.

Two of my balls of clay ended in a collapsed mess, but one of them became something more after about 45 minutes of slow work. I, Elizabeth, had made a legit saucer in my first class. It was symmetrical and beautiful and ever so gratifying. Mostly because I’d turned a ball of clay into something else.

I think this is symbolic of a theme I’ve had lately in my life. It’s a new word that I’ve learned and it’s called “transmute.” To transmute means to turn something into something else, like turning negative emotions into positive change. And I think this clay was part of my current experience of transmuting old pain and trauma into something beautiful, which is expressed in one way via my upcoming book. Turning clay into a saucer was just another way. I not only changed the clay, but I changed how I felt inside.

This experience (and others) have taught me that you should follow those ideas that you have been “thinking about doing” for a long time. If something keeps popping up in your psyche, it’s probably something you ought to do to achieve some sort of transformation. Maybe it’s just to help you get through your life in that moment, or maybe it’s to move you to your next stop in your journey. Sometimes, I think, it’s to help you discover a hidden talent that you didn’t know you had and that is part of your purpose here on earth.

After ping ponging my way through a career, I still believe the only way to figure out who you are and what you’re meant to do is to try things – especially the things that nag at you. Teaching was another one of those things for me. So was photography. So was copywriting. So were novels.

I’m glad I tried them all.

And I’m sort of hopeful that I’m a closet potter and that this experience will end in my own home studio one day in my spare bedroom. I imagine the second half of my life as me writing my books and speaking/teaching a bit, but also creating art and tending to a garden and taking pictures of nature. It’s good to dream, because you can only achieve things that you have actively identified and strive toward.

But even if that doesn’t happen, that’s okay. For now I’m going to use those Monday nights to let my feelings dissolve into the spinning clay. The transmuting of a ball of stuff – in my hands and in my heart – into something different. Something better.