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I'm having some struggles settling back into work. Don't get me wrong - I'm very, very grateful that I have a job. Not only does Mama like to buy herself pretty things, but the family has gotten pretty used to three meals a day. I know how lucky I am that I have a good job - it pays enough for the needs and plenty of the wants, it's not physically dangerous, it's constantly challenging me and helping me grow, and I get to work with some truly amazing colleagues. In a career that has been filled with blessings and opportunities, my current organization stands out as one that has transformed me as a person and a professional. I've learned things that are super cool (in a nerdy way) and been able to learn from some of the best in the world (the nerdy superheroes of quality improvement).
But despite all this, I'm finding it hard to find joy in my work right now. I'm not entirely sure what's going on with me. Maybe it's because I feel different, but the world hasn't changed. I have a new view but the scenery is still the same. After having been through such a profound life experience, how do I return to the mundane details of daily life? On the one hand you come through cancer thinking you should stop and smell all the roses. On the other hand, that dog poop in the backyard isn't going to pick itself up. It's a weird headspace to be in.
As a member of the leadership team at work, I see part of my role as helping staff problem solve. To guide them through the critical thinking process, coach them to develop good judgement and help them learn how to get unstuck and move forward. But I have a new benchmark for what I consider a problem in life. Things that used to seem like big deals (oh how I sweated when we made our first offer on a house) aren't so big anymore. When you've faced life or death questions (do I have cancer? #!$%! just how bad is the cancer?) it's pretty hard for anything to match that level of gravitas. So by default some of the problems that send the workplace into a tizzy seem pretty petty to me. Of course, they aren't. Your biggest problem is still your biggest problem. We compare the size of our problems only to our own reality, not to some yardstick outside of ourselves.
Even though I know this intellectually, it's still hard for me to muster empathy for some of the issues that cross my desk. There's a part of me that wants to respond to some of the complaints with a snarky, "Well, at least you don't have cancer." When I hear grumblings about the ambiguity in our current state and people wanting more clarity on what the next year will look like, I struggle to entertain these concerns. You want to talk ambiguity? I still don't know if I'll need chemotherapy. I will spend the rest of my life - be it another 40 years or another 5 - wondering when and where cancer will make it's inevitable return. Because as Dr. M said to me, "we never say cure in cancer". Because it's a disease that's managed, not cured. The surgery, the treatments, the drugs - they're all about trying to lengthen the window of time from when cancer first appears to when it appears again. And if you're lucky - if it was caught in time, and the treatment was effective - you will die of something else before cancer comes back for you. Unless you're one of the random people who aren't so lucky, which can be anyone at any time really. How's that for ambiguity? But yes, tell me again how not having a work plan sorted out for next year is really ruining your quality of life.
I want to be a good leader. I want to care about people's problems. But perhaps right now I'm still too consumed with my own problems to be there for other people. Maybe that's horrible, or maybe it's okay. It's forcing me to dig deep for compassion and patience. It's easy to have both when it's smooth sailing but perhaps more important to be able to offer these qualities when you have them in short supply. I'm not sure. This is the circus I'm trying to sort through in my head these days.
But despite all this, I'm finding it hard to find joy in my work right now. I'm not entirely sure what's going on with me. Maybe it's because I feel different, but the world hasn't changed. I have a new view but the scenery is still the same. After having been through such a profound life experience, how do I return to the mundane details of daily life? On the one hand you come through cancer thinking you should stop and smell all the roses. On the other hand, that dog poop in the backyard isn't going to pick itself up. It's a weird headspace to be in.
As a member of the leadership team at work, I see part of my role as helping staff problem solve. To guide them through the critical thinking process, coach them to develop good judgement and help them learn how to get unstuck and move forward. But I have a new benchmark for what I consider a problem in life. Things that used to seem like big deals (oh how I sweated when we made our first offer on a house) aren't so big anymore. When you've faced life or death questions (do I have cancer? #!$%! just how bad is the cancer?) it's pretty hard for anything to match that level of gravitas. So by default some of the problems that send the workplace into a tizzy seem pretty petty to me. Of course, they aren't. Your biggest problem is still your biggest problem. We compare the size of our problems only to our own reality, not to some yardstick outside of ourselves.
Even though I know this intellectually, it's still hard for me to muster empathy for some of the issues that cross my desk. There's a part of me that wants to respond to some of the complaints with a snarky, "Well, at least you don't have cancer." When I hear grumblings about the ambiguity in our current state and people wanting more clarity on what the next year will look like, I struggle to entertain these concerns. You want to talk ambiguity? I still don't know if I'll need chemotherapy. I will spend the rest of my life - be it another 40 years or another 5 - wondering when and where cancer will make it's inevitable return. Because as Dr. M said to me, "we never say cure in cancer". Because it's a disease that's managed, not cured. The surgery, the treatments, the drugs - they're all about trying to lengthen the window of time from when cancer first appears to when it appears again. And if you're lucky - if it was caught in time, and the treatment was effective - you will die of something else before cancer comes back for you. Unless you're one of the random people who aren't so lucky, which can be anyone at any time really. How's that for ambiguity? But yes, tell me again how not having a work plan sorted out for next year is really ruining your quality of life.
I want to be a good leader. I want to care about people's problems. But perhaps right now I'm still too consumed with my own problems to be there for other people. Maybe that's horrible, or maybe it's okay. It's forcing me to dig deep for compassion and patience. It's easy to have both when it's smooth sailing but perhaps more important to be able to offer these qualities when you have them in short supply. I'm not sure. This is the circus I'm trying to sort through in my head these days.