I came to Indiana a year and a half ago because I was looking for something.
What I was seeking was nebulous. I wanted a sense of community, identity, some closure for a long-dead trauma. And incredibly, I found everything I wanted, and more, here.
And a week from today, I am leaving.
It’s got nothing to do with the Midwest itself. In fact, I love it here, and I’d stay if I possibly could. But after three years, the uncertainty of working as a remote contractor has become too stressful to tolerate, especially as more and more companies are forcing folks back to the office.
Surprise! You work in tech now!
About a year into the pandemic, a recruiter reached out to me out of the blue and hired me as a contractor for Google. At the time it confused the hell out of me. Why would a recruiter approach me, a nonfiction writer with no background in computer stuff, to interview for a job posting public-facing content for the largest technology brand in the world?
As it turned out, this was one of the many golden opportunities the pandemic had presented for tech. When the schools closed and travel shut down, the market was flooded with out-of-work teachers and journalists—highly-skilled writers, looking for work. And these companies desperately needed people who could translate instructions about how to use their products from engineer-speak into regular user-ese, or who could keep enormous amounts of written material stylistically and grammatically consistent. And it needed to all be done remotely.
So tech recruiters sought out people like me who were reliable and teachable and not a little uptight about grammar. Then, the companies that hired us filled our skills gaps via structured onboarding and training. They transformed us from teachers and bloggers into “content strategists,” a job title that means something similar but pays a whole hell of a lot more.
Of course, there’s a catch. Tech companies need full-time employees, but providing full-time salaries and benefits is expensive, and their ultimate responsibilities are to their shareholders. So they cut costs by hiring contractors, then requiring them to work eight-hour shifts. These are regular nine-to-five jobs, paid hourly—permatemp gigs, often stretching for years. It’s great because you do have a permanent job, but terrible because it doesn’t feel like it.
And if you’re working remotely, like I do, this means you’re alone in front of your laptop eight hours a day, five days a week. If you have a bad employer, you spend a lot of your time wondering how many of your keystrokes are being tracked or whether they’re taking pictures of you, neither of which are illegal or at all uncommon if you’re using work-issued equipment.
I do like my employer, and I don’t think they’re doing that. I consider myself incredibly, stupidly lucky, and I still get up some mornings and wonder, “How the hell did this happen?” But for me, remote work is more stressful than in-person.
For someone like me, who enjoys connecting with people, being alone all day long is tough. I’m constantly worried about proving that yes, I’m here and yes, I’m working, even though no one has reason to question it. I’m always nervous because I’m technically a temp, and without in-person interactions to cement my relationships with coworkers—not to mention the brain-warping effects of long-term, daily solitude—my fears about suddenly being let go (you never forget your first recession) go unchecked.
I think it’d be different if I had a family—if I had kids or a spouse, working remotely from Bloomington would be perfect for me. But as of now, the only people I see during the week are in the library and at the gym. I’m also increasingly aware of how much harder it’ll be to convince coastal employers to hire someone in the middle of the country as remote work begins to dry up.
Faith is taking the first step
When I noticed that full-time, remote contracting work wasn’t feeling good to me anymore, I began pursuing local jobs. They might feel more secure, I reasoned, and I’d get to work with people again.
But that turned out to be an avenue the universe didn’t want me to pursue. Of all the in-person positions I applied for, the only one that set up an interview postponed it when the department underwent a funding shuffle. They said they’d call me in a few weeks to reschedule. I never heard from them again.
By November of last year, it felt like nothing was going my way. It was just one of those times in life where, no matter how hard you try to make shit work, nothing seems to go right. But even then, I wondered whether not getting what I wanted was protecting me in ways I couldn’t see.
Here’s what has happened since then.
The job I desperately wanted but didn’t get has been eliminated in the latest round of layoffs.
The person I wanted has had something else come into his life, and wouldn’t have had time to be a good partner.
Another remote role practically fell into my lap. I now have the income to move someplace where I’ll not only be able to meet my coworkers, but if I find myself out of a job I’ll have a much easier time finding a new one.
Because I had to wait until May to move, a cottage came available that’s a 20-minute commute if I ever want to go into work. This is an absolutely unheard-of luxury in the Bay Area.
You know what else never happens in the Bay? They held that property for me for 60 days. No one, anywhere in the entire state of California, lets a place sit empty for two months… unless that person is coming out of a season where nothing lines up, into a season where everything does.
I don’t know if I’ll stay in California forever. It’s not like moving all the damn time makes a lot of sense, or forms a super-clear narrative about my life. But I was reminded recently of a favorite quote from Dr. King:
“Faith is taking the first step, even when you don’t see the whole staircase.”
Time to take one, I guess. Maybe, if I put my hands out, I’ll find the light switch on the wall.
20 MPH
There’s a speed limit sign in my back yard that says, “20 MPH.” During the last eighteen months, I’ve spent a lot of time looking at it, sitting on my back porch.
I start each day out there with a cup of coffee, and I eat every meal I can on the steps. I watch bees, I listen to birds, I soak in the quiet, I say hi to dogs. Sometimes I write or talk on the phone, but mostly I just sit with myself.
And that pretty much sums up the indescribable gift of my time here.
To recover, you have to slow down. To figure out where you went wrong, you have to slow down. To get quiet enough to hear yourself, you have to slow down. To learn who you are and what you need, you have to slow down. I slowed down, and what I needed finally caught up with me.
I spent more evenings than I can count cuddled up under blankets while snow fell outside. I spent Christmas with a neighbor when it was too cold to drive down to Florida. I paddle-boarded at sunset, watching as the sky lit up with stars and the trees lit up with fireflies.
I watched 80s movies in the park with new, and now lifelong, friends. I wanted to hone my Midwestern sense of humor, and I accomplished my ultimate improv goal (I performed a patter song).
This past Sunday, I sprinted my last thirty seconds at the end of a weekly workout, in a community that’s carried me through my worst times. With each step on the treadmill, arms pumping and exhausted, I thanked those people, that place, this time. I have nothing but gratitude now for the region that raised me, where before there was displacement and bitterness.
I’m 100% Constitutionally Midwestern. So I’ll take the Midwest with me back over the mountains, making my way towards the sea.
💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖
Thank you for reminding me why I’m constitutionally midwestern, too, Lauren, and for giving me a reason to look forward to returning to my home state, and a reason to be grateful California is calling you west again. So glad we’ll get to go on taco tours and Wild Flour rambles soon!