What I Want Her to See

On Monday, I start a new job. Even typing that sentence makes my stomach flutter a little. The kind of flutter that feels like nerves and excitement holding hands.

Last month, this was only an idea. A quiet tug in the back of my mind, wondering if I should put myself out there. A role opened up in my current company, and something in me said, You should at least try. Not because I was desperate to leave where I was, I love what I do and the people I work with, but because it felt like a fit. Like an opening that could let me use the skills I’m already strong in while stretching into new ones.

So I did the things that always feel bigger than they look from the outside.

I updated my resume.
I wrote the cover letter.
I interviewed.

I’m not going to pretend it was easy. There is a very particular vulnerability that comes with putting yourself on paper. Trying to translate work, who you are, and your experiences into tidy bullet points and confident sentences. There’s the awkwardness of talking about yourself out loud, especially when you are close with the people interviewing you. Then there is the waiting. The second-guessing. The mental replay of every answer given.

It was nerve-wracking. I wondered if I could actually do the job I was going after. Was I getting in over my head? Did I make the right decision? But it was also kind of thrilling. It reminded me that I am still allowed to want something new. I am still allowed to take a chance, put my best foot forward, and see what happens.

I got the job.

I will be on the same team, in part of the same world I know, but I am stepping into a position that will let me lean into what I am really good at. It will also give me the opportunity to learn new skills and grow. It feels like a “next right step”. Not a dramatic leap, but an opportunity to take a chance.

And here is what surprised me most:

A big reason I took the risk was because of Emma. She’s three. She’s little. She is still learning how to put on her shoes and pour her own cup of water without spilling it everywhere. But she is watching. She is always watching.

I want her to grow up seeing that courage belongs to everyone. It belongs to people who have routines and responsibilities. Who look like they have it all figured out. It belongs to people who are comfortable and choose to get uncomfortable anyway.

I want Emma to know that it’s okay to take a chance. That it’s ok to try and not know exactly how it will go. That it’s okay to be a beginner again.

Because that is where I am now. The beginner phase. The part where everything is new, and I don’t have the muscle memory. The part where I am learning the language, the systems, the expectations. The part where I wonder if I made the right decision. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s unfamiliar.

As Monday gets closer, I feel those nerves deep in my body. But I am practicing how I speak to myself. I keep reminding myself that believing in who I am is part of the job. That the way I talk inside my own mind matters. That the stories I repeat become the lens I live through.

I have been trying to speak to myself the way I would speak to Emma:

You can do hard things, I say.
You’re allowed to learn.
You don’t have to be perfect to begin.
You are capable.
You are growing.

Maybe that is what this season is about, not a new role, but a new relationship with discomfort. A new willingness to be seen trying. A new devotion to the version of me who raises her hand even when her voice shakes.

On Monday, I’ll walk in as a beginner. But I will walk in on purpose.

What if the point isn’t to avoid discomfort but to let others see us move through it with trust in ourselves?

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