“I understand.”
She stands and smooths the front of her blazer. “Take some time to think through your goals, Lily.”
“I have been.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I think she actually sees me. Not as the dependable employee who can handle any mess. I think she sees an actual human.
“I’ll circle back,” she says.
She leaves my office, and I stare at the empty chair for a bit, then I laugh.
It comes out small at first, then bigger, and I have to cover my mouth because I’m still at work and apparently still interested in keeping this job for now.
I just turned down a promotion.
In this economy.
My mom can never know this happened.
Edie taps on my door, and I wave her in.
She closes the door behind her. “Well?”
I lean back in my chair and let out a long breath. “I told her I don’t want the promotion.”
Edie’s face shifts from nosy to serious. “You really did it?”
“I did.”
She sits across from me, quiet for once, and that almost makes me cry faster than any big reaction would have. “How do you feel?”
“Terrified,” I say. “Relieved. A little sick. Mostly like I just turned down money I may eventually regret turning down.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe you turned down a version of your life that already felt too heavy.”
I press my fingers against my eyes and breathe. I keep coming back to the fact that I can do the job and be good at the job. But being capable of something doesn’t mean I have to sacrifice my joy for it.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I say.
“You don’t have to know everything today.”
“That sounds fake, but I appreciate it.”
Edie smiles a little. “It’s not fake. It’s just annoying because you want a full plan before your heart rate comes down.”
After she leaves, I sit there with my work calendar still open on one screen and my inbox glaring at me from the other. Nothing about my day has actually gotten lighter. There are still emails waiting, forms to review, conversations to document, andpeople who expect me to have answers before I’ve had a chance to recalibrate myself.
I feel recharged.
I pull my Lit with Lily notebook out from under the HR folders. Just seeing it there, tucked beneath all the work I’m paid to care about, makes my chest ache. I open it to the page earlier in the week.
What would help?
Underneath it, Edie’s handwriting mixes with mine and I see all the pieces I keep trying to manage alone because asking for help feels foreign to me.
I stare at the list and finally understand the difference.
I don’t need somebody to hand me a finished life. I need room to build the one I keep saying I want.
