Last week, I “crashed” a party.

Party, in this case, refers to a statewide gathering of a consortium of writing center professionals. At least three old friends stared me in the face and asked, “What are you doing here?” They were concerned something was wrong. Was I lost? Was I confused? I had left education. I was working in an entirely different industry.

What was I doing there?

For the low price of conference registration, I got to catch up with a dozen people I’d been in community with on and off for nearly a decade. I even reconnected with a few people I’d taken graduate coursework with years ago. What a gift!

Spending my day there was its own learning experience. I felt affirmed. Things had a clarity and simplicity to them. I could see what I’d had back then, and I could see what I have now.

I left education three-and-a-half years ago. In early 2020, I lined up new work. I asked my supervisor for a meeting, and on March 11, I quit what had been my dream job. The institution “declared” the pandemic the next day, and all campuses moved their operations online. It was a strange time, for all those reasons and more.

I’ve likened my leaving to a breakup. There were so many things I loved about my work, but I couldn’t ignore the “job” part of the work any longer. I was woefully undercompensated for my full-time role—making less than my male peers, making less in my seventh year than a person starting with my same title and rank, making less than peers in the field at other institutions, making less than my husband who worked part-time for the institution.

The truth was in the tax returns.

I’d made my choices, and I had enjoyed the ride. But it was time to break up.

My brain knows that this was the best choice for me, and my body knows I could not have stomached the staying. But it was hard. Three years on, I’m still processing the losses that came with leaving.

Visiting the conference last week was a way I could show up for my healing. I gave myself a chance to wade into my feelings and celebrate both what had been and what I have now.

When these familiar faces asked, “What are you doing here?” I told them the truth. “This is a reunion for me!” It was like a homecoming event. I don’t live here anymore, I thought to myself, but who says you can’t go back?

As for the particulars of my loss, I felt a shift that day. My leaving was a little less like a breakup—things aren’t so personal as to be personified—and more like moving house. I’d loved that place. I put my mark on it. I was comfortable there. I knew which floorboards would creak underfoot, and I could feel how the light moved across its rooms.

But I don’t live there anymore. For three years, I’ve avoided learning about the new owners, as it were. I don’t want to know what’s become of the old place, whether they’ve chopped down my favorite tree or painted over those walls I decorated. None of it’s about me, but I also just don’t. want. to. know.

It doesn’t change my feelings of loss, but for the record, the path I took next has been a gift. A total gift. My visit only continued to affirm that. I’ve learned that our “work” on this planet is industry-agnostic. A writing center consultation (then) and a client meeting (now) boil down to the same essential questions.

What are you working on today? Where do you want to take this?

Where are you now? Where do you want to be?

They’re the same questions I might ask myself any given day. What am I working on today? Where would I like to go? And I don’t have to have a crystal ball to know I’ll be okay. I couldn’t have guessed I’d be here, today, but oh well.

I’m not lost. I’m not confused.

I’m here.