I became an artist right when my husband lost his job: I'm not going back
On financial fear, creative faith, and the gigantic leap of doing it anyway If anyone has ever told you to just get a real job, this one's for you.
“You need to get a real job. Like at Home Depot. Do what needs to be done.”
These words came from a well-meaning friend after my husband was laid off in August. Silicon Valley tech jobs aren’t exactly growing on trees right now, and after 18 years of our carefully constructed life, him bringing home the salary, me managing the home and pursuing art part-time, the foundation cracked.
Their voices echo in my head at 3 AM when the doubt visits.
But I can’t go back.
The Unraveling
Six years ago my own life came apart spectacularly. I lost 25 pounds during a year and a half long manic episode. Got slapped with a bipolar 2 diagnosis. Spent three years with a therapist and psychiatrist. Tried medication and hated it.
I pulled myself out of that spiral by writing a musical.
I know how that sounds. But creativity is my craft. Singing, acting, dancing. I do it all. I do it well, better than most. And my body betrays me at every turn. I live with Common Variable Immune Deficiency, a disease where my body doesn’t make antibodies, which leaves me sick most of the time though you’d never know it to look at me. Arthritis and inflammation have made dancing largely unbearable. My right arm and shoulder now limit my piano playing.
I’m a physical mess who doesn’t look like one. A great actor at hiding various ailments. If you asked my friends and family they’d tell you I talk about my health WAY too much. And honestly, I judge people who constantly talk about their health problems, so I’m sure others judge me the same way. The irony is not lost on me.
But here’s what I know for certain: I use creativity as spiritual medicine. Does it work? Some days I’m certain it does nothing at all. Other days it feels like the only thing keeping me here.
The Cultural Script
We’re celebrating 25 years of marriage this year. Our marriage’s quarter-life crisis, right on cue.
The cultural script when financial disaster strikes is clear: abandon your dreams and do whatever it takes. Practicality trumps passion. Security over self-discovery. And I gave up a huge portion of my life to the patriarchal arrangement of mom handling most home responsibilities while dad works outside the home. Eighteen years of that. Another six to eight to go before our youngest is launched.
I’m grateful I was able to work part-time as an actor, playwright, and teaching artist during those years. Those roles helped me come into myself as an artist, something I’ve always had difficulty calling myself. And I’m just beginning to find it.
So now, at the exact moment convention says I should sacrifice the creative work, I’m doubling down instead.
The Leap
I’m not saying I won’t make money. I want to sell my art. I’m singing at a funeral next Monday for $700 and I consider that my art. A practical service I can charge for that also feeds me as a performer. That’s how I want to make my living. With my artistic talents. Not teaching theater in a high school or working at Home Depot. That would kill me faster than... (falls off cliff) ...oops. See? Dead. 😵
My husband has his own work to do right now. He’s experiencing what James Hollis calls the middle passage, his own midlife awakening just beginning. This crisis, and it does feel like a crisis even knowing there are much worse ones in the world, will help him grow into himself if he lets it. That takes discipline. It takes faith. It takes guts.
I don’t always fully believe that creativity makes me healthier. Some days I wonder if this commitment to art is just another form of mania. Am I being irresponsible? Selfish? The doubt settles in my chest and sits there.
But my body is going to keep breaking down, faster than average. That reality pushed me to understand something clearly: I get one chance to be me.
The path less traveled is bumpy, unmarked, and sometimes genuinely terrifying.
But it’s mine.
And I’m not going backward.
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