Eight years ago, I was fired from a very front facing position in my small rural community. Not everyone knew I was fired, and those who did were sympathetic. It was an untenable position. Yet it felt like everyone knew.
I was devastated for about a month. I’d reached the top of the food chain in 2015- there simply weren’t any jobs available. Though we only had one kid left in his senior year, my husband had an established medical practice, so moving wasn’t an option. I decided to take my severance and swing big and hang my shingle as a consultant.
I’d been thinking about it for over a year- I’d been feeling constrained by this place, by the people, by my life. We’re about 2 hours away from the Bay Area and I had some contacts there, and fairly quickly I picked up enough clients to make a go of it. I subleased a little spot in Oakland and began commuting every week or so to work.
Over the next four years, I developed a career independent of my home. And I loved it. I loved being back in the city. For the most part I loved having my own place. On some level, I think it allowed for my marriage to survive a difficult spell. WHen I was home, we rarely went out so I wasn’t really seen by the community I lived in. I maintained just a couple of close friendships, but I wasn’t an integral part of the community here anymore.
Then COVID hit and the world came to a halt. Business had been quiet for a couple of months before- which was part of the cycle of consulting. I’d been spending more time at home- enjoying the holidays and toodling around painting the kitchen and the kids old rooms. By February it was clear this was a whole new paradigm. I gave up my apartment in the Bay. I ran out of rooms to clean in my house.
I contacted an old colleague when I heard there was an effort to start a relief fund here. And I went to work- volunteering to build an organization that would support what we were seeing as the collapse of everything around us- small businesses, restaurants, livelihoods. It felt good to throw myself into the work, help people, and reconnect with many in my previous circle.
Our new reality was conducted on Zoom, even though we were all within a 15 mile radius of each other, so there was always a veneer of feeling far away. Like I wasn’t quite connected yet. People could see me, could see that I’d started to let my hair go gray, my newly straightened smile, but it was on a screen. As I started to lead the initiative to build a community foundation, I could maintain the veneer of a consultant. Official. Wise. Distant.
In the summer of 2021, our son had a heart transplant. Our lives were devoted to his health and well being and that meant being here. Because he was so high risk, we rarely went out. One of my first public forays was to a local meeting on mask mandates, where I voiced support for the decision to continue with masking as my son was at such high risk. My voice shook and tears unexpectedly sprung up. I was grateful for the mask. No one could see me fully, see my rage that we were even talking about something like personal freedom when we needed to take care of each other.
Living in a rural community is challenging, but I’ve accepted that we will stay here- my husband just turned 65, my daughter has relocated here, and our other kids are close enough we can go have lunch or dinner together. Over the past year and a half, I feel like I’m coming out again- from behind the mask, from behind the computer, from behind the shame of being fired years ago. I still struggle with trying not to run away, so I’m doing things to ground me. New garden, new kitchen. Lots of yoga. I’m leaning into the things I love about this place and its people, while at the same time never quite feeling at home. Maybe I just never will.
— Cristine
I was devastated for about a month. I’d reached the top of the food chain in 2015- there simply weren’t any jobs available. Though we only had one kid left in his senior year, my husband had an established medical practice, so moving wasn’t an option. I decided to take my severance and swing big and hang my shingle as a consultant.
I’d been thinking about it for over a year- I’d been feeling constrained by this place, by the people, by my life. We’re about 2 hours away from the Bay Area and I had some contacts there, and fairly quickly I picked up enough clients to make a go of it. I subleased a little spot in Oakland and began commuting every week or so to work.
Over the next four years, I developed a career independent of my home. And I loved it. I loved being back in the city. For the most part I loved having my own place. On some level, I think it allowed for my marriage to survive a difficult spell. WHen I was home, we rarely went out so I wasn’t really seen by the community I lived in. I maintained just a couple of close friendships, but I wasn’t an integral part of the community here anymore.
Then COVID hit and the world came to a halt. Business had been quiet for a couple of months before- which was part of the cycle of consulting. I’d been spending more time at home- enjoying the holidays and toodling around painting the kitchen and the kids old rooms. By February it was clear this was a whole new paradigm. I gave up my apartment in the Bay. I ran out of rooms to clean in my house.
I contacted an old colleague when I heard there was an effort to start a relief fund here. And I went to work- volunteering to build an organization that would support what we were seeing as the collapse of everything around us- small businesses, restaurants, livelihoods. It felt good to throw myself into the work, help people, and reconnect with many in my previous circle.
Our new reality was conducted on Zoom, even though we were all within a 15 mile radius of each other, so there was always a veneer of feeling far away. Like I wasn’t quite connected yet. People could see me, could see that I’d started to let my hair go gray, my newly straightened smile, but it was on a screen. As I started to lead the initiative to build a community foundation, I could maintain the veneer of a consultant. Official. Wise. Distant.
In the summer of 2021, our son had a heart transplant. Our lives were devoted to his health and well being and that meant being here. Because he was so high risk, we rarely went out. One of my first public forays was to a local meeting on mask mandates, where I voiced support for the decision to continue with masking as my son was at such high risk. My voice shook and tears unexpectedly sprung up. I was grateful for the mask. No one could see me fully, see my rage that we were even talking about something like personal freedom when we needed to take care of each other.
Living in a rural community is challenging, but I’ve accepted that we will stay here- my husband just turned 65, my daughter has relocated here, and our other kids are close enough we can go have lunch or dinner together. Over the past year and a half, I feel like I’m coming out again- from behind the mask, from behind the computer, from behind the shame of being fired years ago. I still struggle with trying not to run away, so I’m doing things to ground me. New garden, new kitchen. Lots of yoga. I’m leaning into the things I love about this place and its people, while at the same time never quite feeling at home. Maybe I just never will.
— Cristine
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