When I first moved to San Francisco in the early 90s, I was frequently pegged for being a New Yorker, and it wasn't because of my barely detectable accent. Within seconds of meeting a new acquaintance, I would inevitably ask "What do you do?"
More often than not, I received responses I didn't expect: "I paint," "I windsurf," "I'm training for a biathlon," or "I help at-risk kids."
I wanted to know what they did for a living - they told me how they lived.
Granted I was young and most of the people I met were 20-somethings who didn't have mortgages to pay or families to support. But this broader paradigm has given me the flexibility to navigate career transitions that would have been difficult had I remained too firmly attached to the letters after my name (MSW, LCSW) or the size of my writing portfolio.
Of course, there's nothing wrong with taking pride in one's hard-earned status and credentials. But glomming on to titles that complete sentences like "I am a ________________" (stockbroker, lawyer, etc.) can trigger an identity crisis when confronted with precarious life circumstances like, say, a recession.
One of the key factors in determining emotional resiliency is what social psychologists call an "internal locus of control." A locus of control, which can be either external or internal, is a belief about our power to effect change in our lives. Those with a dominant external locus of control believe their destiny lies beyond their sphere of influence. Consequently, they often feel victimized. People with a strong internal locus of control, on the other hand, believe their decisions hold sway over their future. While they may be unable to avoid natural disasters, the death of loves ones, economic downturns, and similar such crises, they feel empowered because they can choose their response.
Personally speaking, an internal locus of control has helped me remain true to my calling during periods of professional upheaval. Several years ago, I took a detour from my social work career, accepting a position as a development writer at a large philanthropy firm because I needed a job that paid decently and gave me flexibility to care and eventually grieve for a terminally ill loved one. I had been an unfulfilled journalist before obtaining my MSW and earning my clinical license at an outpatient addiction and mental health counseling center in Maryland. But as a newcomer to New York City, I was in no position to start a private practice and all the social work jobs either paid a pittance or had client quotas that would have impeded my care-giving responsibilities.
Some wise person once said "if you don't love what you do, love why you're doing it." The job worked for me because I was able to support myself and care for my family member. Yet, whenever I gave out my business card with my job title "Senior Development Writer," I felt a sense of betrayal. I had to constantly remind myself of who I was, why I was there, and where I wanted to go.
Because I remained true to my inner compass, I gradually found my way back. When the cues presented themselves, I spoke with colleagues about my professional background and interests. Eventually, I was invited to serve on committees where my experience as a clinical social worker was recognized by peers and experienced clinicians, leading to connections and opportunities that helped me complete the transition. Today, not only do I have a growing private practice, but I have also taught therapeutic writing workshops (combining my love of writing and psychology) at such high-profile venues as the 92nd Street Y and the JCC in Manhattan. I have also taught master's level Psychopathology at Long Island University's School of Social Work.
I offer this neither as an invitation for praise nor as encouragement for taking the road less traveled, but rather as an alternative paradigm for job-seekers who may need to temporarily suspend their attachment to their professional credentials so they can reinvent themselves in an "any job is better than no job" economy.
In my workshop, The You Behind Your Resume: Writing from a Novel Perspective When You're in Career Transition, my primary goal is to help recently unemployed individuals tap into their internal locus of control and remember that they are much more than their last salaried position.
Most participants are Baby-Boomers. The very same generations that challenged the Vietnam War, broke with social convention and achieved unprecedented levels of affluence now find themselves depicted as hapless victims of an economy that favors youth over experience. These world-weary job seekers tell me they are tired of having their stories told to them - "I'm sorry but you're over-qualified" - or about them - "Longer Unemployment for Those 45 and Older" http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/13/us/13age.htm.
The first question I pose to the group is "Who would you be if you weren't________________?" I instruct them to fill in the blank and answer the question, writing continuously for four minutes. By inviting participants to see themselves as multi-dimensional characters whose sum total of life experiences - as mothers, husbands, sons, rebels, artists, epicureans, caregivers, environmentalists, athletes, survivors, lovers, etc. - subsumes their resumes, participants can reclaim the authorship rights of their lives as they become reacquainted with their larger storylines.
In another exercise, I ask participants to imagine their lives as novels. I instruct them to assign a title to the current chapter of their life story and write a brief summary in the third person narrative.
A 60-something woman from Brooklyn shared the following:
Sprung Like Athena
After 35 years with the same company, the only transition she had to make was from one side of the door to the other. Without ever acknowledging the albatross that was around her neck, suddenly, with two steps, it wasn't.
Empowering participants to tell their stories from a perspective that is personally meaningful instills them with a sense of well-being that may not only impress a prospective interviewer, but remain with them regardless of whether they are offered a job.