There are approximately 400 things I should be doing right now.
Laundry. Figuring out what everyone is eating this week. Making sure calendars are updated. Laying out clothes. Cleaning things that absolutely do not need to be cleaned simply because my brain has decided that apparently the entire house needs to be in perfect working order before I can start a new job.
Because tomorrow, I start a new job.
And this one feels different.
I haven’t really shared the details publicly yet, and I’m actually going to keep them close for just a few more days. Once I get through this first week and have a minute to process everything, I’ll share more.
But for now, I can tell you this:
It’s local.
It’s full-time.
It’s outside of my house.
And after years of building a career that eventually became almost entirely remote, those three little facts feel enormous.
I Didn’t Realize How Much This Would Affect Me
I’ve started plenty of new jobs before.
I’ve walked into big offices in New York. I’ve joined corporate teams. I’ve worked with major brands. I’ve managed people and campaigns and budgets. I’ve sat through the awkward first-day introductions and learned new systems and figured out new company cultures.
I’ve also spent years working remotely, where my commute was measured in steps and I could throw a load of laundry into the washing machine between meetings.
This isn’t my first new job.
But somehow, emotionally, it feels like one.
Because I’m not just starting a job tomorrow.
Our entire family is changing its routine.
And I don’t think I fully appreciated that until this weekend.
Suddenly I’m thinking about things I haven’t had to think about in years.
Who needs to be where and when? What are we eating for dinner? When will I grocery shop? When will I work out? What needs to happen before I leave in the morning? What can the kids take responsibility for? What happens when someone forgets something?
And, perhaps most importantly:
How exactly did women collectively decide that Sunday night should involve preparing an entire corporation—otherwise known as their household—to function for the next five days?
Because I would like a word.
But Underneath the Logistics, There’s Something Much Bigger
The truth is that this summer has been a lot.
Probably more than I’ve shared here.
I’ve been doing some pretty intense therapy over the last few months.
And I hesitate even writing that sentence—not because I’m ashamed of therapy. I’m not.
But because there are some parts of our lives that are much easier to write about once we’re safely on the other side of them.
I’m not sure I’m completely on the other side yet.
I’m just in a different place.
A better one.
This summer, I realized that I needed to do some real work on myself. Not the cute version of “working on yourself” that fits nicely into an Instagram caption.
The uncomfortable kind.
The kind where you have to sit with things you’ve avoided. Look at patterns you don’t particularly like. Admit when something isn’t working. Figure out what you actually want instead of what you think you’re supposed to want.
I’ve had to think a lot about happiness.
About identity.
About work.
About motherhood.
About turning 40.
About what happens when the version of your life you worked really hard to build doesn’t necessarily feel the way you expected it to.
And there have been some very hard conversations along the way.
Maybe I Needed Something Different
For so long, I measured my career in the ways we’re taught to measure careers.
The title.
The salary.
The next promotion.
The bigger opportunity.
The impressive company.
The LinkedIn announcement.
Keep climbing.
Keep earning.
Keep proving.
And I’m proud of that career. I’m proud of the woman who built it.
But somewhere along the way, I’ve started asking myself a different question:
What if success isn’t always about going bigger?
What if, sometimes, it’s about building a life you actually enjoy living?
That question has been sitting with me for a while.
And it’s part of what makes tomorrow so emotional.
This job isn’t another version of the jobs I’ve had before.
It’s local. I’ll physically leave my house in the morning and physically come home at the end of the day.
I’ll have coworkers I see in person.
I’ll have a commute.
I’ll pack a lunch.
I’ll probably complain about said commute at some point and conveniently forget that I wrote this entire sentimental paragraph about having one.
And there is something about all of that that I’m genuinely looking forward to.
I’m Excited. And I’m Scared.
Both things can exist at the same time.
I am excited to have somewhere to go.
I’m excited to meet new people.
I’m excited about having structure again.
I’m excited to get dressed for work—which, let’s be serious, might be one of my favorite parts.
I’m excited to use parts of myself that have felt a little dormant.
But I’m nervous, too.
I’m nervous about balancing everything.
I’m nervous about losing some of the flexibility I’ve gotten so used to.
I’m nervous about how I’ll keep Project Motherhood going while working full-time outside of the house.
I’m nervous about being tired.
I’m nervous about whether I’ll be good at this new thing.
And there’s another emotion underneath all of those:
grief.
Not because something bad is happening.
But because every new chapter requires us to close—or at least change—the one before it.
There’s a version of me who could be home when the kids walked through the door. Who could schedule appointments in the middle of the day. Who could write a blog post at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday if inspiration hit.
There was freedom in that.
There were also things about that life that weren’t making me happy anymore.
Both can be true.
Maybe that’s one of the things therapy has helped me understand this summer.
You don’t have to convince yourself that the old thing was terrible in order to give yourself permission to want something new.
And Then There’s Project Motherhood
This little corner of the internet has existed through so many versions of me.
Pregnancy.
Babies.
Toddlers.
New York.
Ohio.
Career changes.
Motherhood changes.
Body changes.
Marriage.
Fashion.
Really wonderful seasons.
Really difficult ones.
And now we’re walking into another one together.
I don’t know exactly what working full-time outside of the house is going to mean for Project Motherhood yet.
But I know I’m not walking away from it.
Actually, I think I’m finding my way back to it.
Back to writing because I have something to say.
Back to talking about fashion because I’ve loved it since long before Instagram existed.
Back to sharing motherhood as it actually looks—not perfectly packaged, but complicated and funny and exhausting and beautiful and occasionally requiring you to make dinner while answering an email and yelling upstairs that someone needs to find their shoes.
Maybe having less time will make me more intentional with the time I do have.
We’ll see.
So Tonight, I’m Letting Myself Feel All of It
The house is still not completely ready.
The laundry will probably never actually be done.
I’m sure there is something important I’ve forgotten.
Tomorrow morning will come anyway.
I’ll get dressed.
I’ll probably check my bag seventeen times.
I’ll kiss everyone goodbye.
I’ll get into my car.
And I’ll drive to work.
Such an incredibly ordinary sentence.
I’m going to work.
And yet, after everything this summer has held, it doesn’t feel ordinary at all.
It feels like movement.
It feels like choosing something.
It feels like trusting myself again.
And maybe that’s why I’m emotional about it.
I’m not walking into tomorrow thinking I’ve suddenly figured everything out. Therapy hasn’t magically tied my life into a pretty little bow. Turning 40 isn’t going to come with some grand revelation. And a new job isn’t responsible for making me happy.
That’s still my work to do.
But I feel hopeful.
And right now, hope feels pretty damn good.
I’ll tell you more about the job next week.
For now, I need to go figure out what everyone is eating for dinner tomorrow.
Wish me luck.
— Allison
