I'm a Liar

I went to North Korea, and I'm getting married. My apologies for fast-forwarding, but today it feels like a necessity. After all, this is a blog, and I'm the Boss of My Own Content. Besides, sitting in front of me on my Formerly-Known-As-Dining-Table is a stack of things to do. You know what I'm talking about if you're a blogger - all those things you didn't write about, but have been meaning to write about. So, I'll give you the abridged version, and then I'll tell you why I'm a liar.

Getting married - I'm engaged to someone I met not once, but twice, in a crowd of 40,000 people at a massive costumed event in Hong Kong. Consider those odds, if you will: 2 people in a crowd of 40,000, meeting twice, mostly unrecognizable in costume. Nearly two years on, it's still unbelievable to both of us.

North Korea - For years, it's been my dream to journey there, and I finally made it happen. Incredibly, I got a chance to sit in Kim Jong-il's actual seat for the Mass Games ceremony!

Okay, that's about it for the big, archived news. Now for the breaking news. And why I've entitled this post as I have, that I'm a liar.

For two years, I've been writing a book called "Live from Mongolia!", a story about a banker who leaves her supposedly awesome, lucrative job to follow a dream all the way to Mongolia to become a journalist. That's my true story; that's my coming book.

But what about now? What about right this minute?

Right this minute, it's a weekday morning, and I'm sitting in my pajamas, something that disappoints me to no end. When I had a job, a real job, I arrived everyday before dawn. Although I complained bitterly about the hours, I secretly loved them. Waking up to an alarm, knowing I had somewhere to be, being committed to a role: that was some good kind of pressure, the kind of pressure that made me react, do, achieve.

And now? And now I have nowhere to be, no real reason to even get dressed, only a persistent call of duty to finish this book. And that's why I'm here to tell you today that I'm a liar.

Ever since I left banking, I've run into colleagues here and there: a few weeks ago in Union Square, last night at Grand Central, even overseas. "Wow, I'd love to have your life!" they remark, and I nod politely in agreement. Of course, it is wonderful to have this life, this freedom to sit in my pajamas until I go to bed again, if I please. But that's not what I'm talking about.

What I'm talking about is...I seem to have misplaced my fire.

When I first started writing the book two years ago, I'd get a lump in my throat every time I wrote what I thought was a particularly well-phrased description. Eyes watering and overcome with the emotion of passion for one's duty, I'd sit in cafes around Manhattan with a goofy grin, grateful for the mere opportunity to express the literary gift I felt I'd been given.

And now? And now, two years on, I miss that old innocent excitement. The effervescence with which I approached each day has gone flat. Presumptuously expecting good turns of phrase, I resent my ability when it doesn't heed my bidding.

And so, I'm here to tell you that I've lied. That I'm no longer sure about what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. That cafes are distracting. That a flexible work schedule is completely unempowering, even though I've told you otherwise if we've met on the street. That I don't want to be in my pajamas right this moment.

So, on that note, I am going to get dressed and go to a distracting cafe. With or without you, passionate fire, I must soldier on.

Part IV: What If...She Did It?

Three words, and Robin Huffman's life changed. A senior design executive who'd lived all over the world, she'd recently relocated to Manhattan. But not for long. Soon, Robin would leave everything behind, and relocate from New York City to the jungles of central Africa. Click here to read about Robin's journey from design exec to surrogate primate mom...

Robin's story is Part IV in my series, and it's featured on the front page of International Life's Business section! It's quite an honor to be featured on the front page of UK's top-ranked online luxury mag, so thanks to all you readers for supporting me.

The rest of the series is linked below:

Part I: What if you did it? Throwing in the towel on the career

Part II: Saying goodbye to the NYC apartment and the trappings of wealth

Part III: Finally quitting the banking job

(Image at top: Photo by Guy Evron of Robin Huffman and Yoda)

Part 3: The day I finally left my job

But let me back up. To the day I resigned from my banking job.

By the time I’d left, I’d spent nearly ten years doing it. Every morning, I was awake shortly after five o’clock. Before seven, I was at my desk, at least one cup of coffee already drunk, and several more on their way.

The day I finally quit was like any other, but the week preceding it wasn’t. Earlier that week, an arrogant and important client had sworn at me. Specifically, he’d told me I was stupid, “f-cking stupid”. But that wasn’t what bothered me. On trading floors, everyone gets sworn at. What incensed me, to the point of very taboo tears, was that he’d hung up on me. I don’t know about you, but there’s something so profoundly ill-mannered about putting the phone down on someone else’s voice. It’s just completely…dismissive.

Anyway, having spent the last several years frustrated and near my own boiling point, it was this act of dismissive arrogance that pushed me to the edge. And it was a third shot of tequila that evening that finally pushed me over it.

“If you stay in banking,” my best friend Meghan said to me that night at a Mexican bar in Manhattan’s West Village, “one thing can happen.” She paused for effect, and went on. “But if you go, anything can happen.” Stunned into silent contemplation, I looked out the window at the blizzard that was putting its finishing touches on blanketing the city in a soft white.

Read how I quit here...

This blog is part of a series about changing careers and following dreams. To read prior posts, click on the following links:

Introduction: Ever thought about throwing in the towel on your day job?

Part 2: Saying goodbye to the trappings, selling the Manhattan apartment