Years ago, I was sharing my time between freelancing and a part-time office job. In the midst of a chaotic lay-off process, an attentive manager gifted me a session with a careers coach—out of her own pocket! (Because they deserve credit: the manager was journalist and fiction author Inga Vesper, who since wrote an atmospheric crime novel called The Long, Long Afternoon; Helma Betts is an executive coach who now focusses on mediation and conflict resolution.)
On my way to meet Helma, I remember thinking: Gah, she’s going to say I must reopen my LinkedIn account!1 She’ll suggest I be more aggressive with networking!
Yes, I was a grown woman bracing for a telling-off from a professional who gets paid to provide helpful advice tailored to my specific situation.
Helma is a kind, competent person who did not say any of the things I feared. First, she listened. Then, she told me that I was OK: that I had seized opportunities when they did come my way, and that it seemed to be working for me. That another person who’s more goal-driven and competitive than I am may get there more quickly, and that I would get there too in my own time, in my own way.
I was weeks pregnant with my first child that day, although I didn’t tell Helma. I remember feeling happy about my impending motherhood, eager to take a real break at work, confident that I could fall back on my freelancing. We had talked with my beloved, saying it was his time to shine at work, while I enjoyed gestating and then getting to know our new person. Helma reassured me about that, too, saying that supporting and feeling passionate about my beloved’s professional goals while I put my own on the back burner—consciously, and temporarily—was understandable and sound.
More broadly, she suggested that I work for real when I do, and have fun/rest for real when I don’t, instead of gnawing at my nails about undefined things I should be doing in my downtime. It was a luminous spring day in West London, and I applied Helma’s advice straight after meeting her by going into Kew Gardens on a weekday afternoon, feeling naughty and free like I rarely had in several years of freelancing (or since).
Essentially, she cut me some slack and suggested that I be honest about who I am and what makes me tick. Maybe another client, with a different temperament or at a different moment in life, would have wanted/needed more hard-hitting advice and a quarterly roadmap. I’m guessing any coach worth her salt would understand and address those needs, too.
It’s one thing to read (or sing) about this You Do You mantra. Someone else—with credentials, with some authority—telling me earnestly, in a professional context, that my desires and motives and ways are valid and that I was fine: that felt like a revelation.
I wanted everyone to get that experience. I wanted to provide the same balm to the smart, thoughtful, hard-working colleagues and friends whom I sometimes hear saying, with some shame, that they aren’t where they could or should be, at work or in life.
I want that for you today, if that’s what you need.
In fact, I feel like several of my posts could be subtitled A Permission Slip.
Permission to make New Year’s resolutions in the way that works for you (or not at all). Permission to dance even if (you feel) you don’t know how. Green light to have fun with things you stink at. Blessing to celebrate the holidays however you want to (or not at all). Licence to enjoy a bit of competition. Permission to raid the thesaurus for synonyms of permission. Permission to embrace your way.
(I have now set up a Permission Slips section of this newsletter, so you can find all those posts in one place.)
I won’t tell you that this one session changed everything; I still feel doubt or frustration on a regular basis. But I often think about that spring day in the sun, and about the wisdom of knowing and working with yourself, instead of against it.
I did reopen that LinkedIn account a few months ago—of my own accord. I’ll sign you a permission slip to delete a social media profile, if you need one.