Enmeshment
I did everything I could possibly do to avoid showing up here… I feel like I'm slinking into a crowded room mixed with strangers, childhood bullies, and exes— face hot, fingers numb, eyes darting, wondering if anyone will recognize me.
I've been thinking about this topic for over a year but every time I'm in the mood to write I'm in the middle of something, my computer isn’t there, I can't find a pencil, Matt is next to me, I'm on a plane and feel paranoid about the stranger sitting behind me looking over, etc. I thought work being so busy was the main reason for my avoidance, but even on vacation I chose to park myself in the same room as my little baby nephew, who can show me his head, nose, and belly— the cutest distraction ever.
The truth is I'm still not sure why I haven't been able to show up in front of this blank page, but now that I’m here it’s not so bad.
Since transitioning from theatre to startups over the past few years, I've realized that they’re really mostly the exact same:
It’s very emotional and high stakes.
You meet the absolute best and worst people.
There is no money and also so much money.
There are a lot of “young geniuses.”
They each have their own niche language. To start, all you have to do is replace YAS with LETS GOO.
Finding an agent is a lot like finding investors… just tell a good story and convince someone to bet on your future potential.
Everyone is either wearing a whoop, an oura ring, or is talking about seed oils.
The hope and belief of being a big hit is so exciting to be a part of—
—even though there is an extremely high chance you flop.
Weird hours and lots of creative experiments.
It’s super fun and cool talk about what you do with other people.
It’s different every day, every week, every month.
If you're really in it, you have to care deeply about what you do.
Like theatre, startups are always going to want more of you— enmeshment.
How you have the finish the hat. How you watch the rest of the world from a window while you finish the hat.
This is where I feel pulled— a gift and a curse. Giving everything I have to it, being consumed by it, feeling everything it feels, making it's worries my worries. Knowing there is always a hat to finish at the center of the chaos— and kind of being addicted to that.
I’m learning now that getting lost in it is not the only way to get the full experience, but it’s hard. I want to enjoy my work, I want to relate to my work, I want to get close to it, be involved in the chaos, experience the intimacy of caring deeply, but not feel trapped by it.
Being ambitious means setting goals you’re not sure you can meet, being tense a lot of the time, and dreaming in a restless and uneasy way.
What am I trying to say? Something like this:
In theatre school people used to say, “If you could see yourself doing anything else, do that.” I hated that, because I didn’t know what it meant and it was always said with this little chuckle that made me feel stupid for pursuing this thing I was so passionate about. What does it mean to see yourself doing something else? Now I understand— I think.
When I left school in a tiny town in Colorado with my degree in Musical Theatre I never imagined I’d be doing something so different but also something so weirdly the same— being creative, working hard, navigating the blurred boundaries between work stuff and life stuff.
When we step through a door we don’t always know where it will lead or what comes after. Life is not a means to an end but sometimes it feels that way. I’ve been paranoid about making choices my whole life. Even when I have nothing to lose I can’t shake my fear. Because saying yes to something means saying no to something else, and I want to do it all.