Somewhere, a woman is waking up.
She is checking her work email before her feet hit the ground. She’s eating instant breakfast. She’s getting dressed in clothes that make her feel like someone she doesn’t know.
She’s driving to work, calling her mom. Nothing new to tell. She hits three green lights in a row, the highlight of her morning.
She’s at her desk, trying to multi-task. She’s putting someone on hold as her boss asks her to do yet another task with an unrealistic deadline. There are seven tabs open in her browser. She wants to appear competent, capable, and the opposite of flustered. She fantasizes about someone stopping by her desk and saying “thank you” for the work she does.
She’s walking through Anthropologie on her way home. She’s not really shopping (unless there’s a treasure in the SALE cove); for just a few minutes, she’s borrowing what it’s like to live in a beautiful world.
She’s back at home, peeling herself out of her underwire and pinchy shoes. She only has the energy to put on her sweats, pour a bowl of cereal, and watch a couple shows on Hulu before she gets up and does it all again tomorrow.
My work is for her. And for you.
Because there is more for you than you've been told.