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This is the first segment of a three-part autobiographical piece written by Marian Baker. Parts II and III will be featured in our August and September issues.

“I looked up the road I was going
and back the way I come,
and since I wasn’t satisfied,
I decided to step off the road and
cut me a new path.”

- Mrs. Annie Johnson circa 1903
(Maya Angelou’s grandmother)

MY STORY

Flashback to that era when yuppie was glamorous. My life appeared as a smash success—exciting career in advertising, high pay, nice house, trendy shoes, creative husband with earring. Scene two, Act Two—The bedroom. It’s 2 am. There I am, on the edge of my bed, eyes red and head spinning. The inner committee is hosting another wrestling match between what I feel and how I think I’m supposed to achieve success. I felt trapped, confused and without hope. My life was a success with a capital S, wasn’t it? How on earth could I be unhappy? What was wrong with me?

My skin had thickened enough to know that some uncomfortable and unfair politics were part of the game. After ingesting blatant acts of lying and backstabbing, I found myself playing the accommodating, managerial cheerleader to my team while secretly wanting to scream, Let’s run for our lives! The guilt of hypocrisy was not an appetizing nightcap. Never mind swim with the sharks, I was on the verge of not being able to stomach schmoozing in the skybox. There was a frequent juxtaposition of a deep desire to jump off my rat wheel and an “I-gotta-prove-I-can-cut-it” pull to keep accomplishing. Apparently there’s some chip in our brains about winning and checking what everyone else is doing for the way it should be. I didn’t trust my own feelings. The gremlin on my shoulder would say, “Isn’t this what you wanted?” and “How are you going to keep paying for this lifestyle…that Visa bill?” My soul satisfaction was being nibbled to death by a series of small acquiescences. That presentation is due tomorrow. Shall I wear the blue suit or the taupe? And so the calendar pages turned.

Gradually, I knew my work-driven, high-stress lifestyle was eating my gut and destroying my spirit. I let my job consume me and barely noticed my friendships atrophy. Nurturing elements of life such as personal hobbies and participating in a spiritual center community with other fun thoughtful people quietly withered away. When I wasn’t working, I was trying to stay on top of endless errands (dry cleaners for all those power suits, expensive car washes, sun-dried tomato salsa for the dinner party), or vegging out in front of the TV-because I was too exhausted for much else. I knew I was responsible for my own happiness. “No victims, only volunteers” was one of my mantras. Nonetheless, it took some time for me to actually get out of my own way and reinvent my life.

The Pink Hula Hoop
One night, I found myself staring at a pink hula-hoop that was stuck in the tree outside my bedroom window. Its intense fuchsia peaked through the stark, almost-black naked branches of another winter in the city. Typically, I just sighed at this urban floating garbage—what my visiting father calls “Chicago Tumbleweed.” That night I found myself intrigued by my hula-hoop up a tree. I thought, as much as it doesn’t belong there, maybe it was getting comfortable or doesn’t know where it’s supposed to be. After all, it can’t just shimmy down by itself. Only a very strong windstorm or some overt intervention would rescue this pink prisoner.

Then it struck me. We were kindred spirits, this piece of plastic and I. Most passersby walked innocently unaware of our predicaments, one of us literally up a tree, another feeling trapped in a work culture and lifestyle increasingly out of sync with her innermost needs. Still, there we were, only vaguely conscious of days, months, even years sneaking by. We remained tangled up in barren branches and obligations. How did we end up in this awkward spot? Where should we go next? What “voices” should we follow? And the ambivalence! If the answer was blowin’ in the wind, honey, we needed hearing aids.

The realization that I was stuck did not come to me in a thunderbolt. Mildly miserable for years I didn’t realize I even had a choice to live differently. Besides, just about everyone else I knew was in pretty much the same boat. We had all come to believe in the necessity of the 60—80 hour workweek with its politics and pressures. Wasn’t that just part of the bargain of “keeping up?” We had been told this was the Good Life, the American Dream, starring us as the ever-popular Miz-Busy-Executive-Woman. Bragging or kvetching about how busy we were became a favorite sport—the socially acceptable way of saying, “See how successful I am?”

What a nightmare.

I registered for various creative, fun and soul-feeding classes, but repeatedly failed to follow through. I let my compulsion to achieve and a magnified sense of duty overwhelm these attempts to wake up my true spirit life. Unconsciously, I tried to feed my vague soul cravings with shopping. Talk about spiritual junk food! But it isn’t surprising. After all, I was surrounded by a “Good Life” defined solely in terms of consumption. Frequent expeditions for designer clothes and antiques were always rationalized with “You work your butt off so you can buy these nice things.” Of course, that made matters worse, an ultimate dog-chasing-his-tail-to-pay-for-the-stuff-you-think-you-need-because-you’re-working-so-hard-to-pay-for-the-stuff carnival ride. I came to dub this dizzying spiral my unconscious carousel. No wonder I had frequent nausea and fatigue during this time of my life.

I’d change my mind about leaving my job several times a week. I could not decide if quitting would be courageous or cowardly. The debate inside my restless brain resembled an inner metronome. Fear of “and then what?” silenced my resignation speeches. Rationalizations like, “It’s not that bad...” or “Be a proper feminist and show them you can cut it, girl...” or “As the top earner of your household, you simply can’t quit.” I could always find some reason to stay. The seduction of promotions and more money kept me spinning for a while longer. But I never felt happy. In fact, this was an extremely puzzling, lonely time. Success was killing me.

At this point I hadn’t even heard of coaching. There was no one in my life encouraging me to be true to my deeper inner self or to take a leap of faith. My husband was panicked: What if I stopped bringing home all that bacon? We’d have to give up the house we loved. We wouldn’t be able to continue the culturally mandated upwardly mobile climb. In fact, we would lose financial ground, not to mention status! This fueled a bizarre form of guilt within me. How could I dare to want a different life? What was wrong with me? I must be from another planet. My body still remembers this sadness.

This is the end of My Story: Part I. Until next month, Dear Reader, let me leave you with some words for reflection. Listen to your heart. Pay more attention to it than you pay to your neighbors. Find open-minded, caring people who will listen and support you with your best interest in mind.

Next month learn more about how Marian Baker moved from a treadmill existence
to a loving life.

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