Frozen dream
We’re in Colorado this week visiting Miranda’s family, which means getting a little creative with bedtime books. As it happens, her parents have a copy of Shel Silverstein’s A Light in the Attic (like maybe all of our parents?) and we’ve been flipping through it for Zephyr-appropriate poems in lieu of his normal overflowing library shelves at home.
Last night, in a blur of pages, one poem caught my eye:
FROZEN DREAM
I’ll take the dream I had last night And put it in my freezer So someday long and far away When I’m an old grey geezer, I’ll take it out and thaw it out, This lovely dream I’ve frozen, And boil it up and sit me down And dip my old cold toes in.
It’s been a weird few weeks. My squiggle might as well be a black line on a black background.
When I started writing these, I still had every intention of starting a company of my own. Now I’m considering two unexpected, incredible roles (and also looking at other companies I admire). This wasn’t the plan, but… it feels good?
Let’s rewind a bit.
For me, becoming a father has been both a celebration of new life and a mourning of the life I left behind. In conversation with a friend yesterday, I reflected on how I didn’t properly mourn that life (my loss of independence, freedom, flexibility) before the birth of our first child. Instead, that mourning has taken place in three acts.
First, when Zephyr was born—or rather, on some sleepless night approximately six weeks in—I felt the physical reality come crashing down. Life would never be the same. My energy and my body registered the change.
Second, when we sold our Marfa house. As we drove away from “The Dance Hall” for the last time, teary-eyed, I felt my brain finally sense the shift. Seven-hour road trips, spontaneous bike rides, drunken nights wandering the wild, small-town streets? Those were in the past.
Finally, when Bender died a month ago. At last my heart looked back and finally shuddered, sighed, and cried for the life I left behind. Bender symbolized my bachelor days, my Uber days, my travel days. He was there for the formation and foundation of my marriage. He was with us as we moved, worked, bought homes, and built community. And he watched us bring new life into the world, adjust to that radical change, and settle into our new roles as parents. He was the last vestige of a freedom now long gone.
His passing was a devastating loss but also provided brutal clarity. My mourning finally feels complete: I’m now fully present in this new chapter of my life. My body, my mind, and my heart are all in sync.
But what does this have to do with my career?
Until recently, I divided my career into chapters based on where I worked. The Uber years. The Nurx months (lol). The Wheel years. My entrepreneurial journey.
Now I realize that’s the wrong way to think about it. For me, the right way to look at my career (and life!) is based on where my heart is.
Today, finally, my heart is finally in the present. It’s locked in with the reality that is parenthood, our life in Austin, the community that we’ve built, and my passions and curiosities that I have stoked and nurtured over the last few years. And with that… I’m ready for something new.
The truth is I’m not ready to start a company of my own. Not yet. The ideas aren’t quite baked. The conviction isn’t quite there. And my heart is with my family, my community, and my roles as husband and father.
So for now I’m putting those dreams on ice. I’m not going to wait until “I’m an old grey geezer,” but I’m finally realizing that the months immediately surrounding the birth of my second child are—in a hilariously obvious way—just not the right time for me.
But what is next? That’s something I’ll explore more next time (and no doubt in one-on-one conversations with many of you). Thank you for reading this far, following my journey, and being a loving, supportive part of my life.
Talk soon, Alex