No, I was right the first time. I was fired.
I’m brought into a conference room with the shades drawn and told that the company no longer needs my services — that my position is being eliminated, and my tenure expires today. I cry: In my memory, I softly weep, but in reality, I wail. Two people sit uncomfortably as tears sputter down my face and my head droops as I try to process what is happening.
It’s over.
After I escape the airless room, I flee to my desk, head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the office. I will myself to be invisible long enough to gather my bag, my pride and make it to street level. In the lobby, I run into my first friend at the company, ram my head into his shoulder, shake and sob, as he wraps his arms around my slumped body. After a few beats, I feel his grip loosen and I know it’s time to go.
The sharp March air slams my face as I exit the building, taking one more glance at the place. And then much to my surprise, I feel…relieved.
I’m free.
I learned a lot of things from this job — about how great humans can be, how hideous humans can be, my professional strengths and weaknesses. But above all, this job showed me what I’d always known in my heart to be true: that I was meant to write. And on the flip side, not meant to be doing what I was doing.