It’s been awhile since I’ve written, and I think there are some good excuses for that, aside from the fact that I’m notorious for starting journals and fizzling out after four entries. In my defense, I have spent the past two years pretending I know what a teacher does. That was exhausting. But also, I think you get to a point where you have a lot you want to write about and share — stories and experiences you know other people can relate to — but question how honest and unfiltered you can be. Will I offend someone? Will I burn a bridge? Will I remember it differently than someone else? Will a parent of a student be shocked that I used a cuss word? Sometimes, the risk outweighs the reward.

But a theme that’s been floating around in my world lately is self-care, and I’ve determined that no matter how much I try to delegate that job to coffee and dark chocolate and binge-watching “Schitt’s Creek”, none of those can provide the catharsis that honest and truthful writing does. So…to hell with it.

(Yes, teachers swear. Especially when planning lessons for a hybrid schedule. That shit was hard!)

I had a humbling moment last week, courtesy of my school district’s Summer Conference. The presenter asked us, “Why do you do what you do?”

Digger is fond of reminding me and anyone else in earshot, what life was like for us 4 years ago. In his version of events, his wife called him in tears every morning on her way to work because she was lost. “And not, like, in a metaphor way…she really didn’t know where the hell she was!” he’ll regale. If you know Diggs, you know he likes to regale. Especially after a few beers.

This isn’t altogether false. But it was probably every third or fourth morning, I wasn’t always crying, and I only got truly lost a handful of times when I would take a random, meandering route to work because I couldn’t bear another morning traversing I-35.

It wasn’t my lack of navigational skills that had me in tears, though. I was in a rut. I was headed somewhere I no longer wanted to be to do something I no longer cared about.

It feels a little ungrateful and irreverent to admit this because I was working at freaking Hallmark. Collaborating side-by-side with some of the most brilliant, creative, savvy, and hilarious people I’ll ever encounter in my life doing a job I didn’t even know you could get paid to do.

I LOVED it! Until I didn’t. The rut turned into weeks…then months. I knew what I was doing, I knew how to get it done, but my purpose wasn’t clear to me. I was trying to muster engagement and enthusiasm that wasn’t there. It felt like, in order to continue doing my job each day, I was going to have to just put my head down and get through it. Grind it out.

I knew from experience that grinding can sometimes just make the rut deeper. I spent my first two years of college at Iowa State, playing basketball for the best team in the Big 12. And by playing I mean practice squad’ ing, cheering for my teammates, and trying to get the hang of this really complicated hopping-over-chairs move we (the bench) had to execute at every timeout. Our games at Hilton Coliseum were sold out. We beat UConn to go to the Elite Eight. I was part of one of the best teams in the country. And yet, aside from the joy I felt for my teammates, who I adored (and still do! Teammates are for life!)…I felt nothing. I was wilting.

I wanted so desperately to be thought of as mentally tough, resilient in the face of adversity, a loyal and unselfish teammate. But there was an emptiness and loneliness that came with trying to manufacture mindsets and conjure emotions I knew I should have, but didn’t. It was painful to ignore the persistent feeling that I could be doing more with what I had, but it would require a change.

With the help of my family, I was able to make that bold move. Back then, transferring was a little trickier than “entering a portal.” It also carried a lot more negative stigma. “Why would you leave such a great team?” people would ask. “You were lucky just to be a part of it!” Or, my favorite, “I’m surprised you didn’t just stick it out.”

I landed at the University of Tulsa, where sold-out arenas were no longer an issue. Duke walloped us by 50 one time. But I played and played and played. Sometimes the whole game. My teammates relied on me. Opposing teams were “concerned” with where I was on the floor. One time, I blocked Cheryl Ford twice in a row. I felt like I deserved to be there. I knew WHY I was there.

Almost 20 years later, I find myself at Hallmark, wrestling with some of the same demons. Only this time, I’ve got two young kiddos. And great insurance. And aspirations to begin a new, entry-level career with incredible income potential (hee hee…them’s jokes). This time, it took a little longer to make the jump. More discussion, more deliberation, more meandering, tearful, soul-searching drives to work. I had more than just myself and a mid-major basketball career to consider.

But I discovered that one thing hadn’t changed over the years. In fact, it had become a non-negotiable: the work I was pouring myself into every day had to matter to me. Deeply. Every day.

Even on the days when I’m really bad at it. Even on the days when I don’t love it. Even on those days, I still have to know my “why.”

Check out this video for guaranteed goosebumps: