About goodwill gallivanting:
"from nonprofit drop-out to Goodwill Gal"

It all started when...

The desire to be a blogger, or just to write a blog was an idea I had been mulling over for quite some time. I called myself a writer for years. It was a part of my sense of self and my identity, as much as being 5' 2'' or having green eyes. Writing was what sparked my energy and for as long as I could remember, was my favorite creative outlet. As an only child I would occupy myself for hours by carrying around a notepad and pen and writing short stories. All of which, I realize now were blatant copyright infringements waiting to happen. I was encouraged in grade school to peruse gifted younger writers programs and swore by the age of 10 to write a book and dedicate it to my very supportive, 4th grade teacher. But writing didn't come into my life as a possible career choice until I entered college, and after the workforce. Every internship and job I crafted an identity for my myself: the blogger. For every position I held, I consciously conned every boss into letting my start a blog. And because I am fairly talented writer and somewhat convincing speaker, I was always successful. Which brings me to the inspiration to this blog, and what made it possible: failure. 

Along with creating a name for myself as a writer, I also curated another identity as well: nonprofit worker. It started in college with the title of environmentalist (as college so often does), and made its way to the "nonprofit good-doer". Which of course is the technical term for a dedicated, selfless non-profit professional. I left college dewy eyed, and naive, lulled into a false sense of security by the small, liberal arts college surrounded by hippie-town USA I had occupied for 4 years, that I single-handedly was going to change the world.

Fast-forward to December of 2016, and I was unemployed and very mentally unwell. In the course of 9 months, I had quit three jobs, two of which were supposed to be my non-profit, "dream-jobs", with no clear plan for the future in sight. I was 25, living at home with my parents and now had a new identity I cringed at the thought of: non-profit drop-out (read: FAILURE) in big bold, neon red letters. 

I was the point of being so unwell mentally, that functioning at a basic human level was almost impossible. May day consisted of laying on the couch watching Youtube videos, The Price is Right and Harry and napping periodically throughout the day. I was a far cry from the "world changing,-go getter", I labeled myself a mere 2 years before. During this time my mind drifted back to one singe questions, "how the hell did I get here?"

I recalled a freezing cold day in November. It was snowing and I was driving a beat-up cargo van (that I couldn't even reach the peddles to). I was working for a amazing non-profit that I was fully devoted to and deeply passionate about their mission and I was so freaking miserable. I spent the morning on a drafty warehouse dock loading up paper bags of produce to take to another non-profit partner to distribute to low-income families that would be purchasing said bags with SNAP benefits for Thanksgiving. The wind was howling and the snow whipped angrily and apologetically at my face. My hands were raw and red from carrying bag after bag from my truck to the loading platform of our nonprofit partner. The moisture in the air, combined with the severe cold starting to weaken the structural integrity of the bags, and they began to split and disintegrate in my hands. Like a classic nightmare, I struggle to keep the contents of the bag intact, lunging forward to catch falling carrots and bags of cranberries.  

I look at my fellow co-workers, and hang my head low. They laugh off the cold, and snow and appear seemingly unphased by the whole ordeal. Shouldn't this be my reaction as well? This afterall, was my "dream job", wasn't it? Shouldn't I be frolicking in the snow, gleefully delivering these bags of hope to families in need, assured in myself and my organization that I was helping others and making a difference? Instead, my internal dialogue sounded something like this. "I did not go to college, to be a gloried truck driver, make $13 a hour, working 60 hour weeks with no chance of overtime, with health insurance I could not afford. I want to quit." 

Immediately I felt supremely guilty for my own thoughts. I was delivering food to people far less fortunate than myself, and inexplicably, I'm the one who felt wronged. How privileged must I be to have the audacity to even complain. But, I was tired. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. I was completely spent. And on top of it all, I had just quit another nonprofit job that I had to move 3 hours away for, spent thousands of dollars, just to be faced with the same predicament. FAILURE. 

I thought, "maybe I'm not strong enough". If I was really passionate enough and really dedicated, would I really be feeling this way? Am I just a mere quitter, and nothing more? Were all those obnoxious baby boomer NYPost articles right? Was I just a coddled, weak, delusional millennial that didn't have the proper coping mechanisms to "pull myself up by my bootstraps" and push forward? 

I finished the delivery and went back to to my office and began to eat through my lunch "break" and finish the rest of my work for the day. I could hear my co-workers gathering their things and heading to Panera for lunch.  No one bothered to invite me. I guess no wants to "you-pick-two" with girl who has panic attacks and mental breakdowns each week. I could hear them whisper about me on occasion, "playing the victim", and how I "used to be cool". 

I was so ashamed of quitting that job that I kept it a secret from everyone. The only people who knew were my parents because they are the ones who convinced me to quit. I spent almost three months unemployed, and recovering from what I assumed was "nonprofit burnout" but what turned out to be depression. 

I can't quite remember what specifically sparked the idea for Goodwill Gallivanting. But in the words of Oprah, it was most certainty, my "aha moment".