November 2024; I was at the end of my rope. Having lost all hope that reverence for liberty and justice for all, however imperfectly executed, was the core ethos of this country, I felt I had nothing more to give. After a decade of following my map with attentive precision and accuracy, my fuse was spent. I had spent 2024 accepting that my lived reality was not authentically mine; so now that I was also betrayed by the country that raised me, what was I still fighting for? What was the point in “putting in my time”, and “climbing the ladder” if I wanted to burn my map and journey into the unknown? Fuck it. The only truth I felt was certain was that I sure as hell better look after myself because the voting block made it damn clear that my community wouldn’t have my back. 

So when I received the opportunity to take a nearly all expenses paid week-long trip to Amsterdam, I pondered it for approximately 2.7 seconds before booking my flight for “free” using girl-math and credit card points. Old habits die hard, though, so my guilt drove me to only request two days of PTO. My evolved self gifting Saturday-Tuesday to adventure. Guilt, paranoia, and the unfamiliar action of drawing firm boundaries justified working half days Wednesday-Friday. Comme ci, comme ça.

System shocked and eyes sandy, my partner and I arrived on Saturday morning. We insatiably embrace all the weekend has to offer; creating memories together that we will carry with us for our entire lives. Smoking joints while befriending local street cats that frequent the “coffeeshop”; ogling the canals and charming row homes; competing who will be the first to spot the next bicycle adorned with feathers and flowers; daydreaming about living in a boathouse; meandering the streets slowly, with no plan, before deciding to bop from the cheese to tulip museum. I revel in the absence of big-box chain retail and restaurants. I imagine life unfettered by highways and stripmalls; liberated by culture and infrastructure accommodating bike, rail, and even water transport. The slowness, intentionality, cordiality spurs what feels like eight months of nervous system healing in eight days. Despite the constant grey hanging low in the sky, never far from bursting at the seams and soaking the earth with bone chilling rain, there was an airiness, a lightness, a glimmer of warmth within me. I found spring in dreary, soggy November. 

By Monday, my partner has obligations at the office and I’m left to my own devices. Having pre-purchased my ticket to the Anne Frank museum, I arrived early and composed. I have enough time to check my jacket and all other belongings. I give myself over entirely to the poignant experience. Room by room guests walk, in solemn silence, through a building that once housed an overt spice factory that simultaneously hid two jewish families in secret. For two years, eight bodies were confined, hushed, and hidden inside the walls of a secret annex behind a standard looking bookshelf.

I lose breath as I step through the hidden door and climb the steep staircase. My spirit struggles to comprehend that I’m standing in the exact same place where innocent souls hid for their lives from Nazis for no reason other than simply being born, involuntarily, who they were. Tears trail down my cheek as I contextualize how full of possibility these lives were. A tin of marbles for the fleeting moments of play; posters and magazine cutouts decorate the walls of the room Anne shared with her older sister, Margot; Anne’s handwriting along a few of the hung pictures identifying the image; pencil marks in the doorframe, tracking the girls’ height before, during, and after growth spurts over the years; the wear along the floor boards; the painted windows blocking out natural light. It’s all so real. So tangible. 

Throughout the tour, I carry an overwhelming conceptualization of the scale and morbid degree of dehumanization needed to execute a genocide like the holocaust. I shiver and swallow a hard pill of fury and fear as I simmer on the fact that the country that raised me, the “land of the free”, is setting the stage for history to repeat itself. I struggle to wrap my head around, yet force myself to explore the reality that Nazis never disappeared; they just shape-shifted into different forms and fled to different continents.

It strikes me how pure of spirit and strong of constitution Anne maintains throughout her two years in hiding. “How wonderful it is that nobody needs to wait a single moment before starting to improve the world,” “I’ll make my voice heard. I’ll go out into the world and work for humankind”, “I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart”. How cruel it is that a spirit as pure as hers, and millions more, was ripped from this earth. The brutality of mediocre and arrogant men knows no limit. 

I send a silent apology to Anne, her sister, mother, and the six million other Jewish, queer, disabled, and dissenting individuals that were savagely murdered in and outside concentration camps. I apologize that horrific, unspeakable things happened to good and innocent people. I apologize that America is spitting in their memory by ignorantly, arrogantly electing a fascist and standing by, and watching silently, jaw agape, as he and his overseers dismantle democracy in such a similar fashion as Hitler did during her lifetime. More importantly, I send her and myself a promise: I will resist. I will keep my ideals and make my voice heard. I will engage and give back in my community because, “No one has ever become poor by giving”. I will honor my truest self and put my belief in the power of love because, “Those who have courage and faith shall never perish in misery.” I promised Anne that I would do my best to make her proud.

Deep breath. I have to remind myself that I am safe. I am with my partner on a trip of a lifetime. I slowly remove myself from my physical and emotional bearings. I send a silent thank you to Anne’s father, Otto, who worked to preserve this space so history has the opportunity to learn from its mistakes. I descend back downstairs, exchange my ticket for my jacket and bag. I check my phone. I return to reality. 

“Hiya, I know you’re on PTO, but do you have a quick minute to connect?” Slack reads. *Sigh* Work is never far. I respectfully respond to my boss, even though I’m fully entitled to ignore him for another two business days. I consider how I turned in a deliverable right before departing and that he might have follow up questions. Acquiescing to being the ever-accommodating-employee, I agree to a “brief connect”. I could use a latte anyways. 

Down the street and around a corner I find a cozy, quaint café and a window seat with my name on it. I pull out my computer, rolling my eyes at myself for agreeing to a meeting mere seconds after exiting Anne Frank’s hideaway home. How first-world of you. How capitalist of you. Hypocrite, I think to myself. 

The second I click to enter the call, I know what’s about to come. I reference the inexplicable feeling of knowing that has danced around my gut for the last few weeks that some kind of ending is impending. Layoffs. 20% of the business. Effective immediately. I hear about every 10th word, tuning in only when I hear the words, “Severance”, and “Health insurance”.

For the second time that morning tears spilled out of my eyes, although they feel different now. My mouth turns metallic, as if I can taste the bitter ego and acrid embarrassment. I’ve never not been employed. I was that kid who got the work permit so she could start her first W2 job at 15. I always had at least one and often two jobs throughout college. I secured my first 9-5 before I even graduated. I’ve spent the last decade building my worth on my accomplishments as a “professional,” so what value do I still have as someone who is unemployed, discarded, deemed not worthy enough? 

I end the call as quickly as I can. I let myself become wrapped in a blanket of grief and cry. Hands hiding my face as much as possible, not wanting others to see me cry while simultaneously lacking the energy to care whether they do or not. Deep breath. I have to remind myself that I am safe. I am with my partner on a trip of a lifetime.

I stare out the window, looking out on the charming intersection. It’s early afternoon on Monday and people are out and about, some on foot, most on bicycles. Caddy corner to the cafe is a bistro that hasn’t yet opened, to one side is a leather goods shop, to the other is a hair salon. These are real people, living real lives that appear so different from mine. Everyone I’ve observed thus far appears to live vibrantly without a desperation to prove themselves and their worth with titles, zip codes, and the type of car they (don’t) drive. They work so they can live their lives when and how they want to. But who am I outside of my LinkedIn list of professional milestones? What kind of life do I want to live without my career?

I reflect on where I just toured. I think of the immeasurable fear and uncertainty that weighed on so many people. Deep breath. I am safe. The perspective of this unexpected event settles. I was laid off; it’s not the end of the world; it’s not World War III (yet). I am safe. 

Anne was able to experience so little of life and yet she never seemed to waver in her belief in the goodness in the world. I reflect on the last few years. I think back to how easy it was to lose myself, how easy it was for me to limit my own sense of value by tying my worth to my proximity to personal and professional accomplishments. I think back to the ghost of myself that returned my stare in the mirror. I measure the years of my life that were sucked into the void of depression and dissociation. I contemplate the decision I made–the promise I made to myself so many months prior and remember how I’ve dedicated the last 16 months to healing, to growth, to self discovery. I remind myself that I’ve been saving aggressively so I could one day escape the world I eagerly assumed but no longer wanted to wear. I realize that this is the moment I’ve begged the universe for. 

I’ve wasted many years of life being reckless and at times abusive with my body, my spirit, my time. Eventually, I reached a point where I had to make a choice. Which direction was I going to go? Months ago, I made a decision. I committed to the journey and that path delivered me here. But now, we – me, myself, and I – have reached another fork in the road. The phantom voice startles me with its presence again. This time it doesn’t whisper. As though someone is sitting directly across from me, staring me dead in the eyes with deep intensity, I am cornered: Will you go one way and scramble to rebuild the life that you recognize, you understand, you can predict? The life that fits you, though you no longer fit into it? Or are you going to pick up the pieces and re-assemble into something new, a creation reflecting your true vision, your authentic self?

I make yet another decision; a practice I’m learning to embrace. It’s time to go break some glass. Your world needs change. This world needs change. So make art. Make change.