Page 16 of Her Wild Coast Promise

I sip the last of my smoothie. “Horses and hiking no. Reading makes me think librarian, and that’s a no. But I love working with families, and children, and I have experience.”

“You’re also a badass when it comes to fighting for a cause.”

“That’s what drew me to Victim’s Comp,” I reply with a groan. “Which means I’m back to square zero.”

“There has to be more ways to serve women and children in this community. How about teaching?”

“I like the idea of making a difference, but I’m not qualified.”

“Right,” Libby says. “How about social work?”

“More school.”

Libby’s face scrunches tight. “That’s just stupid. You’re more than qualified to help people.”

“I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” I reply to soothe her even though my nerves are slowly frying.

“You ever do one of those mandala drawings?” Libby drains the last of her smoothie. “In the middle put you, then outside of it, put what makes you unique and the things that make you happy. You might be surprised by what comes up.”

I stare at Operation Parachute. What makes me happy? What makes me unique? What skills do I have that will get me through this mess?

I have enough savings that if I scrimp, I can survive for three months without a paycheck. My health care will run out in a month, which means no falling off a horse or eating yogurt past its expiration date. Or getting pregnant. Good thing my IUD is good for another year.

“You’re going to land on your feet,” Libby says with a wink. “Maybe a break like this is what you need to find your direction.”

We dump our cups in the trash and thank the freckled college kid behind the counter, then stroll arm in arm to the yoga studio. I try to soak up the warmth from my best friend before we enter the busy space and get ready for her class.

After the bustle of storing my things in one of the cubbies and exchanging hurried hellos with other patrons, I tiptoe into the dim studio and unfurl my mat along the back wall. Once I’m seated, I close my eyes and try to settle my twittering thoughts.

I’ve never been good at idle time. I have too much energy. Three months of researching and evaluating my job prospects and the pros and cons of more school sounds daunting. What if my quest leads to dead ends? The idea of attending law school is tempting, but is it because I love learning? A law degree would open up a ton of opportunities, but the cost is four years of my life and a massive debt. Would the jobs waiting for me on the other side be worth it? I’d be thirty-one and broke.

Libby invites the class to chant a welcoming “Om” together. I draw in a deep breath and open my mouth, my voice melding with the vibrations filling the room.

In the stillness that follows, that same itch tightens under my breastbone. How can I best utilize these three months?

What jobs would allow me to help people? Make a difference. And not from behind a desk, checking boxes on forms, going to pointless meetings. I crave interaction, connection. Feeling valued is important to me too.

That’s what I need to find. A job that brings me in contact with the people I want to help. A job that I can pour my heart into, and that also fills it to the brim.

By the end of savasana, I’m restless and a little bit giddy from this moment of clarity. Libby and I hug goodbye and part ways. I visit the grocery store, restraining myself from buying the $6.89 creamer—drinking black coffee won’t kill me—and carefully scrutinizing the bread aisle for the cheapest bagels. Instead of buying my favorite frozen “gourmet” pizza, I buy the ingredients to make one from scratch, saving almost four dollars, and manage to leave with two bags (reusable—saving me four cents each) for just under $100.

When I arrive at my rental, there’s a giant white truck in my space. Fighting my annoyance, I park on the street and heft my groceries, balancing one on my hip to open the gate. When I round the corner, I crash into a tall, bald man with a copper-colored beard and round glasses.

“Whoa there, missy.” He’s holding a giant yellow roll of tape. “I’m afraid you can’t go in there.”

“I live here,” I say over my grocery bags, shifting my weight so I can hug the heavier one closer.

The man shakes his head, but his dark eyes twinkle, like he’s amused. “Not anymore.” He peels off a section of his tape and rolls it along the side of the house.

It’s CAUTION tape.

Heat prickles up my spine. “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t you get the notice?” the man says over his shoulder.

“The one from the inspector? Yes. But—”

“Then you’d have known about the termite problem.”

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