Starting again again
Laid up, laid off, and laying low
I was made redundant a week ago. Shit happens. In this case it happened 13 days before Christmas, a time when it’s not really possible to find alternative employment.
It’s hard to start again. Some days in the past week it has felt impossible. I feel exhausted by the hustle my future self will have to engage in in several weeks’ time.
But at least an enforced period of rest alleviates some of the pressures of finding another job right now. Besides, I have no idea what I should do next.
This is the second time I’ve found myself out of work this year. If the experience has taught me something, it’s that I should probably think seriously about my next step.
At 42, with a mortgage, a 3-year-old, and nearly 20 years of working experience behind me, should I keep putting myself in positions where someone can take away the means with which I support my family, seemingly on a whim?
I’m worried I won’t have the energy to put myself out there, to start something of my own. To hustle. But I’m more worried that if I don’t, this will just keep happening.
Redundant is a tough word to wear. It confirms to the worst parts of my brain what they’ve long suspected. That I’m worthless, useless, surplus to requirements.
Thankfully, I know how to counter that voice.
I’ve faced redundancy before, and I’ve always found a way back. Either by the sheer stubborn refusal to believe I’m bad at what I do. Or the tenacity to keep showing up when the world is telling me to stay home.
My first job, at a well-known film magazine, ended soon after it started, once I’d already moved to London and found somewhere to rent. I was 25.
This was 2008, and for three glorious months I thought I’d hit the jackpot, my first job at one of the most prestigious film magazines in the world. Then the recession hit.
Last in, first out. That was also December, come to think of it. I moved back home, got a bar job, sulked. And slowly emerged in the Spring with the energy to try again.
I emailed a rival publication and got some freelance work, and eventually, a job.
The career I have today, and everything that has happened since — publishing a novel, writing a script for David Attenborough — was because of that email.
When Christmas is over and the work of beginning again begins in earnest, that’s where I’ll start. By sending out emails, shooting my shot. Again and again if necessary.
Humans are seasonal creatures. Just as we have a circadian rhythm that governs our days, our years have a rhythm, too. In the dark months we’re supposed to rest, recover, and emerge again with the sun, recharged and ready. But we’ve forgotten how to rest.
In this climate, rest is something we try and fit in and amongst everything else. We steal moments of rest — respite, really — between engagements. We might cancel an evening plan, or have an afternoon in bed. But this isn’t resting. Rest is a full stop.
My wife, Rosie Spinks, who thinks and writes deeply about the way we live, interviewed the author Katherine May a few years ago, about her bestseller, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. May makes this exact point:
“I like to tell this story of the Oak King and the Holly King which were a very common set of presiding deities in northern Europe for a very long time.
The Oak King presided over the summer and he was associated with burgeoning growth, change, extroversion — everything feeling quite feverish and associated with the creation of new things.
And the Holly King presided over the dark half of the year and he was associated with that kind of gestational period, recuperating, with consolidating the work we’d done in summer, resting, reflecting, and drawing inwards.
We need both, but we only acknowledge one and explicitly reject the other. And what I find particularly interesting about that balance is that it flies in the face of the way we often talk about balance now.
We often imply that we’ve got to be finding the perfect equilibrium all the time. And that’s not how humans work, we swing between extremes and I don’t mind that at all.”
— Katherine May
You can read the full interview at Rosie’s Substack.
To fully rest we must down tools, disengage, end the chapter. We must see starting again as a gift, not a burden. The opportunity to have another go. To enjoy and value all the seasons of life, rather than try to outrun them.
This is what I’m thinking about — or trying to think about — this week: What is the opportunity here? What is the lesson? How can I apply this to what I do next?
The trick is not to hide from the shame or the embarrassment that something has ended. But to sit with the pain, the discomfort. To say this hurts, and it’s sad and I didn’t deserve it. But I’m okay. I’ll be okay.
Being unable to seek alternative employment in this exact moment, isn’t a problem. It’s the opportunity. To take the next few weeks as a period of rest and reflection. The Holly King is on the throne, and it’s time to recuperate, consolidate. Rest.
That’s the work.
Perhaps you thought this wouldn’t be about running. It’s always about running.
I’m injured right now. I just ran an 18-minute PB at Valencia Marathon with achilles tendinopathy. I also just completed a 20-week training block, in which I ran PBs in every single distance. I was fitter than I’d ever been, for a time.
In the aftermath of all that progress, it’s hard to watch the numbers fall. I have multiple apps telling me where my fitness is based on many dozens of metrics.
Right now, my fitness is much worse that it was 6 weeks ago, when I got injured.
By the time I finish rehabbing this tendon it will be worse still.
It’s hard to start again.
In the 2.5 years since I took up running, I’ve had to start over multiple times. I’ve had shin splints, appendix surgery, various tendon issues. But each time I’ve committed myself to the rehab, then laced up my shoes, and rebuilt, one run at a time.
And each time I’ve come back stronger.
Yes, you have to start worse than you left off, but you’re building on experience. The body remembers. The tendons and the sinew and the fascia. The muscles and the bones and the neural pathways. They know what this is. They know what to do.
Starting over isn’t an interruption. This is how it’s supposed to work.
If humans are seasonal creatures, fitness is seasonal too. Injury or no, we need periods of rest and recovery. We need to recuperate, to reflect, and consolidate the lessons of the season. To let our bodies heal and our minds absorb what we’ve done.
That’s the only way to build experience. If you never stop to reflect, if you’re always chasing something, how can you see where you are, and where you’ve come from? How can you appreciate your achievements, and the chance to do it all again?
In a recent post on the Endurance Mastery substack, “The Beauty of Starting Over,” writer Matt Fitzgerald talks about a text message he received from fellow runner and writer Peter Bromka, who had recently made a return to running after a year of injury.
What struck Fitzgerald was his friend’s palpable joy and deep gratitude at being able to run again: “Instead of looking backward and ruing what he’s lost, he’s looking ahead at the lush path in front of him and relishing what he has,” he writes.
Fitzgerald goes on to describe his own protracted period of injury, and how he has learned to think about starting over. Not as cause for complaint, but for celebration:
“All of this painful experience has taught me to view that awkward first run after a lengthy interruption like the winter solstice.
Lots of people complain about December 21st being the shortest day of the year, but a few celebrate it as the moment when the days stop getting shorter and start getting longer.
Similarly, the first run after a lengthy layoff marks the low point of your fitness. You’ll never be (or feel) more out of shape than when you’re starting over, and you could whine and complain about that.
Or you could appreciate that same run as the beginning of a new phase of steady progress, where every run is better than the one before.”
— Matt Fitzgerald
You can read the full post at Endurance Mastery.
Fitzgerald’s solstice analogy, which hits on that same seasonal thinking, is apt for any number of things: Grief, redundancy, injury. It will never feel as hard as it does today.
(It’s also a great reminder that whatever you’re dealing with, someone has it worse).
The hustle ahead, the hard work of finding work, is like starting a new marathon training block. It’s daunting, yes. And it’s certainly exhausting. But it’s also thrilling. There’s electricity in a new training cycle. It takes energy, but gives it back tenfold.
As someone who has struggled most of his life with depression, I also appreciate the value of a project. Routine rewards itself, and having something to show up for, and something to show for it, keeps the brain busy, and helps illuminate dark corners.
It’s hard to start again. In the past week I’ve been dealing with a lot of feelings of shame, anger, and fear. And those feelings are all valid. But I don’t have to dwell on them. I can accept them and move on. Because I have a lot to be thankful for.
I am able to run, for example, while I rehab the tendon. As long as I go slow, keep the mileage low, and don’t introduce too much load, running is fine.
I’m fit enough to run an 18-minute PB on a bum tendon. And I got to train for and complete two marathons in a year. I’m thankful for the time and space to do that.
I’m also thankful for what running has given me beyond fitness. For the mental strength to be able to gut out two marathons. For the ability to keep pushing myself.
Tendon aside, I have my health. At 42, that’s not a given. I have a family that loves and supports me. After difficult periods I dealt with alone, I don’t take that for granted.
I’m thankful for my wife’s foresight and the budgeting skills to ensure we have the savings to cover this exact scenario.
I am capable of working, and I know I can and will find work in the New Year.
I am thankful for this time and space to think about what I want to do next.
Part of what I’ve been working on the past week is not letting feelings of shame stop me from putting myself out there.
So, I’m putting myself out there: I want to help running brands tell stories. If you are a running brand and need help with storytelling or editorial strategy, I’d love to talk.
See, that wasn’t so bad.
It’s hard to start again. But it’s necessary.
If something never ends, when do we celebrate, commiserate?
Life and running need ending points. We often refer to a training block. But it’s a training cycle. Progress isn’t linear. You come back down to go higher next time.
Dealing with injury and redundancy at the same time is a kick in the teeth, sure. But it’s the same lesson: Rest, reset, and, when you’re ready, return.
I’m trying not to focus on January. On the energy I’ll need then in order to hustle. I can’t control that. Instead, I’m trying to focus on what I can control.
What’s possible right now is to reach out to people, commiserate, feel sad, take stock, regroup and prepare the water for early January, once the holiday season is over.
What’s possible right now is to make sure my son has a wonderful Christmas. To soak in the joy and the wonder he radiates, to bask in it, bathe in it, reflect it back at him.
What’s possible right now is love, and gratitude.
What’s possible right now is a very slow run, every other day. I’ll relish that. And I’ll look forward to a time when every run is pain free and better than the run before.
What’s possible is strength and resilience. What’s possible is hope and trust — in myself, my experience, my skillset. What’s possible is something even better.
What’s possible is that everything will be okay come Spring.
I’ve done it before. I can do it again.
Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through.
– Katherine May
The sweet is never as sweet without the sour.
– Brian Shelby (Jason Lee), Vanilla Sky (2001)
A quick update:
My writing will remain free to read for everyone, but I’ll be turning on paid subs in the new year. If you feel like upgrading your subscription, there will be a discount for doing so, and I may include extras for paid subs in future. You can enjoy every issue of tangents. either way.
More tangents.
Here’s my Strava if you like giving kudos to slow treadmill runs.
And if you are struggling with anything; redundancy, seasonal depression, injury, feel free to reach out. My email is daltonruns[at]gmail[dot]com.
I’m sorry it’s hard right now. We’ll get through this.
“To fully rest we must down tools, disengage, end the chapter.”
I’m retired after a pieced together career as a woodworker. I was never unemployed though I changed ‘jobs’ at least ten times. I’m the one sibling of eight who went to work with my hands rather than going on to college. I’ve been piecemeal reading ‘How to Retire and Not Die’. There’s a section of the book devoted to scheduling your life and it spells out something I’ve never considered until this year. (I’ll be 70 in 2 weeks).
From the moment of birth our lives are scheduled. First by time spent sleeping and being awake. Next by feeding/eating. Next by schooling. Next by socializing. And periods of study and work and play all controlled by clock and calendar and then suddenly there’s no schedule. For a lot of people it’s waking up in an unexpected void in which they alone must continue after 60 years of ‘fitting in’ and being ‘fit-in’ to the schedule that rules us all.
At a fairly late point in my work life I knew I needed a change but the mortgage and the bills and the kids and the (please pardon me) f-ing schedule had me feeling so locked in I was frozen in place and utterly depressed.
This is getting too long… That’s when I realized at about 45, that I was always self-employed. I was working for myself all that time, and I had brought ‘things’ to life and made ideas and plans into existence. For whatever it’s worth I guess I’m trying to say that what we create, what we bring into existence with our hands and our minds is the career. Those achievements are literally our proof of existence.
…something about the journey, not the destination…
Good luck and happy trails in whatever direction you choose.
Sorry to hear about this, Dan. It might seem bad, and the timing is pretty awful for sure. But we pick ourselves up, dust off, get on with it. Having a supportive other half definitely helps, of course. I ran my marathon with underlying hamstring tendinopathy - a literal pain-in-the-bum and so much worse. But I finally had to stop, admit to myself I can't fix it by myself as it keeps getting worse (yes, it doesn't help if you're in your late 40s), and have had to stop running. I walk a lot for now, try to do other things, ignore all the fitness metrics (and the fact that weight is creeping upwards) and keep telling myself enforced rest is good. I look forward to simply having no pain, for going for an enjoyable run in the future. Wishing you a joyful Christmas and a new year filled with interesting work and plenty of good runs.