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Lessons from a month on hold

Dear reader,

In April I was always on hold. Before this month I’d never really thought about how far as a society we’ve moved away from speaking to each other on the phone. I am no exception to this, I hate calling people. Especially when the ones I am calling are not actually people, they’re robots. In April I spent hours communicating with these automated voices, as one must when filing for unemployment and health insurance. 

Since losing my corporate job, I’ve been reduced to a series of numbers and certifications and paperwork. That this is irritating and a big ol’ time-suck isn’t surprising, really. I don’t know whether to feel thankful these systems exist or resentful for my needing to access them in the first place. But that’s beside the point.

The point is I had completed the applications and the questionnaires and the 6-week waiting window and yet nothing was happening. For what must have been multiple weeks, my mornings followed the same routine. I’d have coffee and breakfast, and then, at around 8:00 a.m., I’d call the New York office of unemployment. It became muscle memory: enter social security number, account pin, a sequence of numbers on the keypad to indicate I’d like to speak to a representative. Cue customer hold music. 

Every day I sat in my apartment waiting to hear a voice that never came. Eventually, the hold music would cut out and the robot voice would return, saying something like: “We’re sorry, we’re too busy right now, try again later.” Then I’d be hung up on. More often than not I’d immediately dial an actual human— usually my mom—to complain but also just to hear a real voice. 

On one particularly frustrating morning, it occurred to me this holding pattern had become the perfect metaphor for how I’d been feeling about my life. Stuck in a waiting room, a place where surely something is supposed to happen but there is no way of knowing when, how, or even what exactly it is I am waiting for. A static feeling of anticipation for the “right” direction to eventually be revealed if I just stay on the line long enough. Certainly I’ll recognize it when I see it, right?

I suppose what I’m really saying here is I’ve been waiting for life to answer my call, though I’m not sure what I’m hoping to be granted. A job? A purpose? A sign, maybe? Any confirmation that I won’t be stuck here forever. Or even just some proof that I am being heard.

I wish my life could say something like, “You’ll make it. I promise you’ll get there.” Of course, people in my life and on the self-help side of the internet say versions of this all the time. “It’s okay to be a little lost or feel behind,” they tell me. And most days, I truly do believe them.

But there is a doubt that creeps in when I’m feeling particularly stagnant. What if I never do figure it out? What if life will always feel like a waiting room? Is there even such a thing as this elusive arrival I am envisioning in my head? Am I being naive and greedy to think that there is? 

I don’t know if anyone can relate, but sometimes I find myself wishing I could hear this reassurance from the source. I want the universe—not my friends, not my therapist, not a podcast or a horoscope—to let me know I’m on the right call. Stay in the queue, the answer you’re waiting for is coming. I can be patient. I’ve even vowed to be content while I wait. I’ve always had faith in this sort of thing. But lately, I’ve been wishing for more than faith. A guarantee, a gesture, something concrete. 

I know life doesn’t work that way. And don’t get me wrong, I understand part of getting somewhere is letting things unfold even in the face of doubt. I’ve seen this play out before. Failed relationships that opened doors to better ones. Bad days that gave way to brighter ones. I know, in theory, that being on hold has value. The chance to pause and take stock is a privilege. In these past few months, I’ve learned to have an appreciation for being in the in-between. Every day I remind myself there’s comfort in knowing I’ve moved past one thing even if I don’t know what’s next.

April reflected this sentiment back to me. A month defined by transition. Some days I wore shorts and others still my wool coat. The weather, like my joblessness, is unsettled and unpredictable. Not quite blooming not quite barren. I found a kinship in April and the way it doesn’t rush or give you exactly what you want right away.

I’m trying not live my life on hold. Just like I refused to spend more than an hour on the unemployment line. That’s not productive. Instead, I plant the seeds, make a wish, and try my best to move on with my day. 

(I did eventually get a hold of someone who was able to help me with getting benefits but only after researching on Reddit how others have succeeded. Specifically this thread, in case anyone reading this ever needs it. Though I hope you don’t.)

I will leave you with this: Obviously, there are no hacks for getting the future to pick up the phone and tell you the right next move. No Reddit thread to heal existential uncertainty, that I know of. But there is no harm, I’ve decided, in dialing those cosmic numbers and expressing your hope anyway. 

April is a temporary state. It rains when it should be sunny, it’s cold when it should be warm. But unlike the New York unemployment office, reaching May is a promise. I like to believe that arriving at my next destination won’t be as predictable as the changing seasons, but also not as impossible as getting a real person on the phone.

Somewhere between hope and holding. A mixture of the excitement you might have for the things you want, like a sunny day or a dream job or some sign that everything will work out, and the patience you must have while you wait for it. 

April: planting seeds, appreciating limbo, anticipating beauty

April In Review

(A little late, but this newsletter was never about being on time)

Reading: 

1. Hunger by Roxanne Gay. A great memoir to me is one that doesn’t hold back. This is not a book that asks for the reader’s pity despite it being about rape and fatphobia. It’s just honest. A hard read but a good and important one. 

2. I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman. The kind of book that is so absurd that you can’t help but become engrossed in it. 

Eating: Pesto and chimichurri made from herbs I grew on my fire escape. 

Listening: The new Djo album has me in a chokehold.

Enjoying: True spring weather days in the city. You know the temperature I’m talking about. The rare, perfect window where you can wear a gray tee shirt in the middle of the afternoon without a single regret. It is peak walk-home-over-the-Williamsburg-bridge weather. It’s fleeting and precious and before we know it we’ll be showering 3x a day, the Subway will smell and we’ll be sleeping under just a sheet. But for now I’m soaking up every second.

On that note, here’s to May and all her possibilities. Quite possibly my favorite month of the year. See ya next time.

Sincerely,

Salena