Changing Careers: Part One
A little over a year ago, I left my job as a civil engineer. I had no plan, no new job, only a firm understanding that I was not where I was meant to be. After a final stroll through the empty office, I dropped my laptop off at the front desk and rode the elevator to the lobby one last time. My walk slowed as I passed the security guard, who gave a nod that, to me, had the finality of a goodbye and the encouragement of a new beginning. I dipped my head in return and spun through the revolving door—never looking back.
Hustling home through the buzzing streets of downtown, I pushed through the door, dropped my bag, and lay down in the middle of the floor. I started laughing; I couldn’t control it. It began as a chuckle and evolved into maniacal sobs as I whispered, “This is insane!” Always one for a plan, doing something so seemingly reckless felt absolutely unhinged. But here I was, unemployed, staring eagerly at the clean slate before me.
The days that followed were a rush—a release of seven years of my life where I felt like an imposter. In between doing laundry and packing up my car for an impending road trip, I slowly began processing the reality of the change. It was a feeling of relief.
For years, I had been harboring the secret knowledge that I didn’t belong—knowing that what I was doing was well out of line with my interests, abilities, and the impact I ultimately hoped to make. It felt like my skin was itching from the inside, and no amount of scratching—career progression—could soothe the discomfort.
Sliding my snowboard across the backseat of my sedan, I stepped back and shut the trunk with a satisfying thud. I was ready to embark on my West Coast national park extravaganza: a 3,000-mile loop ending with a week of snowboarding at Lake Tahoe. I hopped in the car, and with a flash of green from the highway entrance ramp meter, I accelerated hard onto I-5 and sped off for my next adventure.
The miles that followed became a new form of therapy. I went through waves of euphoria, singing to music with the windows down and not a care in the world, to waves of loss and sadness, mourning a career path that may not have been the right fit but was still something I had dedicated years of hard work to achieve.
I drove up the snow-covered roads to my first destination: Crater Lake National Park in southern Oregon. Home to the deepest lake in the U.S. and surrounded by the steep slopes of volcanic rock, I scrambled up the snow embankment and settled into a cautious pace around the rim. The purple hues of the rock juxtaposed with the bright white snow and gray blues of the lake were stunning. I continued on the lightly trodden path, taking great care to avoid any cornices and the chance of ending my trip—and life—with an unfortunate splash.
Stopping to adjust my camera settings, my body tensed as the silence was broken by a gentleman with a heavy French accent telling me the best shot was a few meters ahead. I looked up and saw him gesturing with a camera of his own, hung loosely around his neck.
“Are you a photographer?” he asked as he continued to approach.
“Not at all; it’s just a hobby,” I replied.
“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing!” He stopped and reached into his bag to pull out a winter hat. It was late February, and a chill crept into the air as the sun was starting to set.
“In all of my travels, West Coast sunsets are some of my favorites. Are you on vacation?”
Sort of, I thought to myself.
“Just passing through,” I replied, suddenly aware of being very much alone and not wanting to give out too much personal information.
“Well, you seem the sporting type. With views like these and a bit of luck, you could make that hobby a full-time job if you wanted.”
I laughed politely, and before I could process the words coming out of my mouth, I was halfway through mumbling,
“No, no, I’m actually an eng…”
I stopped myself. No, you’re not. Am I? I still have a degree that says so, but I have no title. I’m just me.
The Frenchman, who I later learned was a Canadian from Montreal, looked at me quizzically.
“Sorry,” I laughed nervously.
“I was about to say I’m an engineer, but I actually just left my job. That’s why I’m traveling right now. I’m meeting up with friends,” I quickly added, on the safety front.
“Well, congratulations!” he exclaimed.
It was my turn for a quizzical look.
“I’m 57 and have had four careers. I’ve climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, spent five years living in Vietnam, sold my startup, sailed halfway around the world, oh, and raised some pretty decent kids too. The biggest thing I tell any young person is to always take the leap. What you know will always be there. Life’s too short to waste your time wondering. So, job well done! Anyway, you should head over and take that shot; the light is fading fast. Enjoy the rest of your travels.”
He pressed on, and I was left to ponder the seemingly fateful exchange. How curious that he was the first person I spoke to on the entire trip and had such timely insights and hope to share.
A wave of calm rushed over me, dissipating a multitude of fears that were starting to take hold in the pit of my stomach. This is right, I reassured myself. You made the right choice.