It didn’t start this way, you know,
free to roam about as I pleased.
Actually, not even now.
I suppose we’re never released.
Before the float, I used to climb
mountains, out from behind the desk,
pushing pen and people so that
my bosses could declare success.
Some seventy thousand hours
over a kaleidoscope screen,
crunching numbers in the backroom,
wondering when I might get seen.
I wanted to believe there was
some significance to the act—
that minding data and dollars
could keep the company intact.
But one by one, the players fell,
like dominoes on a wire,
until only a few were left
to put out the daily fires.
Burning, I left it all behind,
long before I could be consumed
by all the flaws in the design
and the time they falsely presumed.
That was a long time ago, now.
Years that I will never get back.
But then, who would I have become
if I never gave it a crack?
And what about the other steps?
The ones that came long before that?
The ones that made me question who
I am and got me off the mat.
The analyst job that I quit
to explore the Maine wilderness,
where I went running from the bear
and cared about a whole lot less.
Or the move to Colorado
towards the real land of the sun,
to try my hand on a mountain
before I needed to move one.
There was the fancy tennis club
where at four, I used to mow lawns
with the drunks and the immigrants,
out—before the coming of dawn.
And I was a clothing store clerk,
the young men’s section, in my prime,
where the boredom would make me knock
clothes off the shelves to pass the time.
I tried my hand waiting tables,
where my mentor stole all my tips,
and I spilled water on a man
who asked for more, in between sips.
I punched claims in school to pay rent,
and there, learned how to type with speed,
and not depend on the keyboard
to find the letters that I need.
I taught sailing, painted houses
and used to cut frames for artwork.
Had a whole lot of good bosses,
plenty of incompetent jerks.
I’ve had interviews where I was
clearly underdressed for the part,
and interviews where my dress suit
negated my chance from the start.
I’ve made speeches and gone unseen,
been forgotten in those back rooms
of fluorescent lights, and thrumming,
’til the janitors brought their brooms.
I’ve made good moves and the wrong ones,
been promoted and left to die,
and wish I could tell you I have
figured out rules to abide by.
But what I can tell you is this:
no one knows how the steps will go,
but all the planning goes nowhere
unless you jump into the show.
— ❧ —
Moving Into Adulthood
The kids are getting older, and a lot of changes are coming. It’s made me think more about job advice—and how young people are supposed to navigate this rapidly shifting world. Who knows what the job market will look like in ten years with all this AI? Thirty years ago felt simpler, but even our parents couldn’t have predicted how much would change just from the arrival of personal computers. What a crazy time to be alive.
Truthfully, if my kids (hopefully) come to me with questions, there’s still a lot I’m figuring out myself. For one, I’m trying to write professionally. I’m also trying to figure out what’s next if writing doesn’t work out the way I want. I’m still growing. Still learning. It never ends.
Why All These Lives?
When I started thinking about what job experiences I could draw on to help guide my kids, I realized this: because the learning never ends, the one thing I can say for sure is—don’t wait to begin. Whatever you’re planning, start. Do something. Even if it’s not your dream job, work at something. Use it as a tool for growth. It’s the best way I know to get closer to where you want to be.
That’s where this poem came from. The value of less thinking sometimes, and more doing. Then, after a stretch of doing, give it a think—and go do something else. That’s what worked for me.
If you liked this poem and like poetry in general, you can find more like it at In Verse.