Excuse me, but what did you mean when you said that?

And other things I wish I'd had the guts to say

It’s been a funny old week, and not just for me. There’s a sense amongst my peers that we’re all slightly struggling, feeling overwhelmed as we hurtle towards the end of term.

My stress levels are certainly higher than usual, as I start to plan for 6 weeks of juggling small people with work and, well, life. Not one to shy away from making my life more complicated (perhaps a story for another time), this week I well and truly pushed my comfort zone by attending a networking drinks.

From a quick straw poll of my friends, the term networking is met with a collective groan and faces are made. No-one I spoke to enjoys it, and yet it still seems that in order to advance one’s career one must stand around, sipping warm white wine and trying to nod in the right places as someone way more important and clever than I’ll ever be holds court.

Photo by Antenna on Unsplash

I was out of sorts all day, leading up to the event. Trying to apply eyeliner, my hands were shaking so badly I had to stop and take a few deep breaths. Somehow, after a panicked phone call to a good friend, I managed to decide on an outfit and leave the house.

By the time I’d tottered to the station (my heels were only AN INCH. Maybe two, maximum. More than networking, I HATE wearing heels), my feet were already bleeding and my train was delayed.

Hot, crowded, late, bleeding.

What would Brene Brown do? “Be brave. Show up.”

I persevered and arranged to meet a couple of lovely, supportive ladies on the way so we could all arrive together. We’d never met IRL, but Zoom allowed us to recognise each other and it was as if we were already friends. A win!

As we walked into the pub (my husband laughed when I told him where we’d been. I described it as “a little old fashioned”, to which he gleefully told me it was literally one of the oldest pubs in London…) I felt way more relaxed than I’d expected, and made an effort to chat to everyone.

So far, so good. Then it all came crashing down.

“Where are you from?” someone clever and important asked me.

I panicked and froze.

What did she mean? Where do I live, or where do I work? I literally almost said “nowhere.” As in, you won’t want to speak to me, I don’t work anywhere or do anything. I’m NO-ONE.

What kind of person can’t even answer a simple question like that? The silence seemed to stretch on forever as my brain scrambled to respond. I willed myself to string a sentence together.

Come on, just say anything.

“What do you mean? Where do I work?” I eventually mumbled, before not very articulately saying I’m freelance. Or trying to be. Or actually, I don’t really do anything, please stop speaking to me. The last part in my head, of course.

I was shaking and sweating but smiled and looked interested (which I was) as she explained a bit about who she is and what she does. Oh sh*t. More important than I’d realised.

I rallied and managed to ask a few vaguely interesting questions before explaining what I’m trying to do in the writing world.

They say pride comes before a fall, but is there a term for what happens when you’ve already fallen down and it gets worse? Because there should be.

“You do realise you’re never going to make a living doing that, don’t you?”

And there it was.

I felt it like a dagger to my heart. Was it a rhetorical question? It must have been, as she gaily continued by telling me how one of her good friends (namedrop - mental note to google her later) was “literally really depressed” about not being able to make a living from writing.

Now, to be clear, I’m not taking issue with this person, she was very helpful and gave me some good advice. But what she said stayed with me.

Work has always been a vulnerability for me. Since leaving my toxic career as a lawyer, I’ve felt distinctly less-than when it comes to jobs. With that one sentence, I was taken back to a time when I felt like nothing, not good enough, certainly not successful or wanted.

I wish I’d asked her to clarify. Did she mean that it wasn’t going to pay my bills and mortgage? If so, this I know. Did she mean I have NO CHANCE because I have no training or contacts?

Or did she simply think I’m not good enough?

I didn’t ask, so I’ll never know. But my go-to was that I’m not good enough. The devil on my shoulder, who I’ve managed to stifle pretty successfully over the years, chuckled with glee.

“Ha, ha, ha, you thought you could actually do this! Silly, stupid girl. What were you thinking?” it chortled.

“Why are you even here? You have no place calling yourself a writer. Go back to being a mum. Stick to what you know!”

I spent the following day mulling this over and feeling all kinds of out-of-sorts. I walked my dog, and even that didn’t help.

But eventually, sometime that evening, I rallied.

F*ck you. (*voice in my head, not important and helpful person!)

Don’t tell me I can’t.

I can, and I am.

THE END

(or is it just the beginning?)

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash