I’m Not Starting Over. I’m Starting From Experience.
- 31 minutes ago
- 6 min read
Every few weeks, I tell myself, “You really need to write.” And apparently my response to myself has consistently been, “Girl, I know.”
The truth is, I haven't stopped writing because I ran out of things to say. If anything, I've had too much to say and not enough distance from any of it to figure out where one thing ended and another began.
I've been busy living the part I usually write about.
And lately, life feels a little like somebody walked into a room I had finally gotten arranged the way I wanted it, picked up the whole thing, shook it, dumped everything onto the floor and said, “Okay. Put it back together.”
Oh. Okay then.
Except some of the pieces don't fit where they used to.
My daughter has epilepsy. I was laid off on my late son's birthday. I'm looking for a job in a market that apparently did not receive the memo that I have been doing this for more than 25 years and actually know what I'm doing. We're looking for a new pediatric neurologist. What I need from my next job is different because what my daughter needs from me is different.
And somehow, when somebody asks me how I'm doing, the answer still rolls off my tongue:
“I'm fine.”
And the crazy thing is—I am.
Sort of.
I'm learning that functioning and being fine are not necessarily the same thing.
When One Date Carries Too Much
I was laid off on June 16.
There are 365 days on the calendar, and somehow life chose that one.
June 16 is my son Isaiah's birthday. It has been his day since 2011, and even after his death, it remained his day. Birthdays don't stop being birthdays because the person you love is no longer physically here.
I had learned, as much as anyone ever learns, how to carry June 16. It held love, memories, questions about who Isaiah would be today and the grief of knowing I don't get to watch the rest of his story unfold.
Then I got laid off on it.
And if I'm truthful, I resented that.
Isaiah's birthday already had enough to hold.
I didn't want termination paperwork there. I didn't want uncertainty about income, insurance and what came next taking up space on a day that already belonged to my son.
Now those memories compete for space on June 16, and I refuse to let the layoff win. It was Isaiah's birthday first. It will always be Isaiah's birthday first.
But I'd also be lying if I said losing my job didn't change the date. Sometimes starting over means figuring out how to carry a new loss without allowing it to swallow everything that came before it.
My Life Changed Before My Job Did
The other truth is that by the time I was laid off, my life had already changed.
My daughter's epilepsy diagnosis created a new normal for us. There are appointments, medications, school conversations, things to watch for and decisions that weren't part of our everyday life before. Now we're searching for a new pediatric neurologist, and I'm learning all over again how much work goes into finding the right person to care for your child.
Before her diagnosis, flexibility at work was something I appreciated.
Now I need it.
And strangely, losing my full-time job gave me exactly that.
Being home has allowed me to drop everything when Izzy needs me. I can take the appointment that becomes available at the last minute. I can handle the school call. I can handle the seizure notifications from her monitor. I can be present without sitting in a doctor's office simultaneously worrying about the meeting I'm missing.
I would never call losing my job a blessing.
But I can acknowledge the blessings that have existed inside this season.
And time with my daughter isn't the only one.
I Finally Had Time to Look at What I Had Already Built
For years, Hope and Beyond Foundation existed alongside everything else I was doing.
I founded it. I believed in it. I loved the work and knew why it mattered. But like many people who build something while working a full-time career, I often gave it whatever was left after the job, motherhood, ministry and life had taken their share.
Then suddenly my day-to-day changed.
And for the first time in a long time, I had room to really dig into my own nonprofit.
Not answer an email between meetings.
Not say, “I'll get to that this weekend.”
Actually sit with it.
Think about what I built, why I built it, who it is supposed to serve and what it could become if I gave it the same energy, strategy and expertise I have spent decades giving to other organizations.
That realization has been both exciting and a little uncomfortable.
Because apparently I had been sitting on my own experience while spending most of my working hours using it to build somebody else's vision.
Now I'm asking different questions.
What could Hope and Beyond become if I gave it more of me?
What happens if I lean harder into my consulting work? My coaching? My business?
These things aren't consolation prizes until somebody hires me.
They're things I built.
They're streams of income, yes, but they're also evidence that one employer was never the sum total of what I had to offer.
I needed that reminder.
Starting From Experience Is Still Starting
I love the saying that when you begin again, you're not starting from scratch; you're starting from experience.
But here's what nobody puts on the inspirational graphic:
Sometimes experience makes starting over harder.
Because now you know what things cost.
You know what burnout feels like. You know that salary isn't the only form of compensation. You know peace has value. Time has value. Flexibility has value. Being available to the people you love has value.
So when I look at jobs now, I can't simply ask, “Can I do this?”
After more than 25 years in HR, there are plenty of jobs I can do.
The bigger question is:
Does this fit the life I have now?
That isn't being picky. That's experience.
And maybe that's true beyond work.
Sometimes starting again isn't about rebuilding the life you had. It's about finally acknowledging that you don't have that life anymore.
Your responsibilities changed.
Your priorities changed.
You changed.
So why would you rebuild everything exactly the same way?
And Yes, I'm Still “Fine”
People ask how I'm doing, and I say I'm fine.
I'm working. I'm consulting. I'm coaching. I'm building. I'm pouring more into Hope and Beyond. I'm parenting. I'm doing ministry. I'm sending résumés. I'm making appointments. I'm laughing. I'm praying.
I'm functioning.
But some days I'm also scared.
Some days I'm tired.
Some days I'm encouraged.
Some days I look at what I've been able to do with Hope and Beyond and wonder whether this interruption created space for something I wasn't giving enough room to before.
And some days I would still very much like somebody to hire me and send a paycheck at regular intervals.
Both things can be true.
That's probably one of the biggest lessons of this season: two things can be true at once.
I can miss the security of my old day-to-day and be grateful for the freedom of this one.
I can hate that my daughter has epilepsy and be grateful that I've been available when she needs me.
I can be frustrated by the job search and excited about what I'm building.
I can trust God and still be nervous.
I can encourage somebody else while needing encouragement myself.
And I can be strong without having to pretend all of this is easy.
Maybe “Fine” Means I'm Figuring It Out
The coach in me wants to leave you with this:
If you're starting over too, stop trying to rebuild a life that no longer fits you.
Look at what survived the change.
Look at what you know now.
Look at what you've built that you may have been too busy to notice.
Look at the gifts you've kept on the side because something else paid the bills.
Look at the people who need you.
Look at what matters differently now.
And give yourself permission to build from there.
I don't know exactly what comes next for me.
I haven't landed the perfect job. We haven't found the new neurologist yet. I don't know exactly how much Hope and Beyond, consulting, coaching and my other work will factor into whatever this next chapter becomes.
I'm still in the middle of it.
This isn't the testimony after the breakthrough. It's the testimony from the hallway.
But I'm beginning to understand that I didn't land in this hallway empty-handed.
I came here with more than 25 years of professional experience. I came here with a business. I came here with a nonprofit I founded and finally have more room to nurture. I came here with coaching and consulting experience. I came here with faith, some hard-earned wisdom, a whole lot of love for my children and enough stubborn determination to keep figuring things out.
So, no.
I'm not starting from scratch.
I'm starting from experience.
And when somebody asks me how I'm doing, I'll probably still say:
“I'm fine.”
But maybe what I really mean is:
I'm holding it together. I'm paying attention to the blessings I didn't expect. I'm building with what I already have. And I'm figuring out what “fine” looks like from here.
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