For many of us, I'm not sure the finality of the event has completely sunk in. But in the last week, the seriousness of the situation has hit me.
As of right now, I have no full-time work lined up after July 23. Both of the employment options I thought were in place have fallen through. I have spent the past five days reaching out to everyone I can, inquiring about possible openings in their media organizations.
So far, nothing.
There are good days and bad. On the days when I find stories to work on, I am energized by the profession I still love. On days when there is little work, my mind starts to creep into the realm of the uncertain.
The questions are everyone.
What are you going to do?
Are you going back to school?
Will you keep writing?
Those around me are optimistic.
"Oh, you will be fine," they tell me.
"You're too good not to be working as a journalist."
"I'm sure you will land on your feet."
So far, nothing has presented itself to let me know that is true.
My faith is being stretched like silly putty. I know this is where God wants me. My career is not my own. Things happen in His time, not mine.
I must be patient. But that - especially when it comes to my career and contributing to covering our bills - is tough. I waver from self-confident to doubtful. My emotions run from hopeful to angry.
I tell myself not to worry. I try to let go. But then all at once, everything comes rushing back.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Crunch time.
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