End of an era
On Thursday 7th of February 2019, the best-selling meditation author and teacher Shamash Alidina sent me an email with the title, “Anya - want to be Head of Content for MoH?”
By which he meant, The Museum of Happiness - a London-based social enterprise that shares the art and science of happiness.
It was a no-brainer for him to ask me to fulfil the unpaid volunteer position. His plate was filling up and I had come up with ideas for blog posts about the Museum of Happiness’s “Happy World” model for the coming year, was their poster girl for Play and Creativity, and was becoming an increasingly engaged volunteer behind the scenes. It felt good to contribute to something bigger than myself, and to join an organisation I’d loved since attending their second-ever event back in 2015.
A year later, of course, the pandemic hit. Shamash stepped back to focus on Acceptance and Commitment Training and, having held occasional in-person workshops, I volunteered to step out from the backroom to support the remaining co-founder, my friend Vicky. I started co-hosting online trainings; a 4-week short course (in direct response to the pandemic), and then the Museum’s Facilitator Training.
It wasn’t easy - I would feel so exhausted before almost every session that I’d wonder how on earth I could deliver value - but I discovered I was good at it. Like, “Holy shit, this is a Zone of Genius for me that I had NO IDEA ABOUT” kind of good.
(I know, I’m being HELLA MODEST.)
Over this time my role evolved from Head of Content to Head of Positive Psychology, to reflect the MSc in Applied Positive Psychology I was studying. Still unpaid, still just a volunteer, but devoting my love, time, and energy into writing the website, sub-editing blog posts, proposals and events, and turning my hand to whatever needed to be done to write those fortnightly newsletters.
The last major project was a Crowdfunder, raising £22k for a new physical home in East London, just before Christmas. I barely had time to rest between my then-partner’s visit and launching straight into long days on limited energy, designing the supporter’s t-shirt reward, problem-solving, and writing good enough copy to win two rounds of match funding.
As I took on the actual production and sending out of the newsletter just before the festive season, I even started to receive a tiny monthly payment. Not much but, as I didn’t have the strength to find work to replace my disability benefits, it was at least something.
And then, on Thursday 16th of March 2023 - the first anniversary of my mum’s funeral, and after 4 years of contribution - I received a group email from my friend, the director, unexpectedly “blessing and releasing” me from my role and the organisation due to a “reorganisation” to save money.
(Yeah, the timing and the way it was delivered .. hurt.)
Since then, relations between myself and my friend have deteriorated; we’re both backing each other into a corner about unresolved issues, no doubt both being encouraged to treat each other “professionally” (ie, without compassion) by well-meaning and protective advisors and friends.
This comes on top of quite probably losing the home I’ve rented for almost 13 years (it’s just gone on the market, and first time buyers are queuing up to view), which came on top of a relationship de-escalation/break-up, which came just before the first anniversary of my mum .. when people ask me how I am, I wryly quote Mother Teresa: “I know God won’t give me anything I can’t handle, I just wish He would trust me QUITE SO MUCH.”
My mental health has taken a hit (tell me I’m not the only one who struggles to open emails when that happens??), and I even lost full use of my arms and hands at the start of last week. Which makes preparing and eating dinner about as easy as you might imagine.
It feels like things are being stripped away from me; work, relationships, home. While all this is going on (no, really, there’s more!), I’m also days away from the dissertation deadline to complete that aforementioned MSc.
I am falling, pushed out of an aircraft I didn’t know was in flight, trying to focus on sewing my parachute mid-fall despite literally disabling disorientation, grief, and loss.
I have to trust.
I have to trust that the Universe is ‘clearing me out for some new delight’. That it knows how loyal I am, how devoted I will be regardless of whether something’s objectively good for me, that I will keep trying to see the positive, that I am grateful to express love in whatever way I’m able.
That the blade I feel slicing through me is being wielded with an unknowable kindness, severing what no longer serves me to produce space for something new.
But this liminal space, between the old things dying and the new ones yet to emerge, is hard when it’s affecting everything, everywhere. All at once.
My arms feel weak and in pain again, now, from writing all of this, from holding all of this.
“My barn having burned to the ground
I can see the moon.”
