The Unfuckwithable Power of Acceptance

It was as though some childlike part of me thought that if I never felt good for a single moment, the universe might pay attention and help me out.

The author, accepting the fuck out of a four-leaf clover

In my early thirties, I had a job as a tax accountant in the Shittiest Firm In The Universe. I hated the work: the conflicting Key Performance Indicators; the recording of every six minutes of my time; the managers who held constant meetings to spout buzzwords and swing their dicks around; and the soul-crushing lack of meaning. I was exhausted. I kept a crystal in my pocket to ward off negative energy (ha!), and kept a photo of my late mother beside my desk who I looked to for strength.

One day after work, I drove up to a traffic light on the main street and wondered why the hell a dozen pedestrians were crossing. Slowly, I ploughed my way through to teach them a lesson, thinking to myself, “Fuck you all, the light is red”. People shot me confused glances and moved out of the way, while one man smacked the bonnet of my car and glared at me with dark, angry eyes. I didn’t care. Moments later I pulled over as my heart raced with the realisation: the light was red for me, not them!

Realising I was so unhappy that my brain shut down was a turning point: I had to cut my losses and shift careers.

From that day on, I searched the internet for jobs and sent out different versions of my resumé: one exaggerated my skills, the other played them down. My pitiful attempts to sell myself with longwinded stories about how my skills in tax could be useful in different fields — like receptionist, medical secretary, anything — was absolute bullshit, and was seen by prospective employers as, well, absolute bullshit. I switched firms only to step sideways, working for the same people with different faces.

During the years of searching, I continued to fight the reality of my situation at every waking moment with constant rumination and imaginary arguments. It was as though some childlike part of me thought that if I never felt good for a single moment, the universe might pay attention and help me out.

Fighting reality is exhausting, and there came a day when I couldn’t go on. Staring at my keyboard, I took a deep breath out and said to myself, “I release this”. With that exhale, I released my concern that I had no idea what I could possibly do, having worked in the accounting industry for so long. I released my worry about finances, being a sole parent with no-one to fall back on. I released my belief that I could control the universe with endless whirlwinds of negative thoughts in my mind.

This wasn’t a case of passive resignation; I was still planning to look for new jobs. But when I was at work, I decided I would be there instead of inwardly fighting.

Seconds after I uttered those words my mobile phone rang, and I was offered a job I hadn’t applied for teaching business subjects to adult learners. It was part-time, but paid almost as much as my full-time accounting position. This wasn’t as miraculous as it first sounds: I was already working for this organisation one evening a week teaching a three-hour business class, just for the experience, so it’s not like I was cold-called out of the phone book.

Still, I do think there was an element of magic to it.

Teaching wasn’t my “passion or purpose”, something I once expected to find through brain-straining deliberation, but it was much better than the work I’d been doing. We had morning tea breaks! I talked freely to the students and my colleagues without thinking about six-minute time blocks! I went to the toilet without worrying about my chargable time!

It was in this new realm of mental freedom that I started writing in my spare time, just for fun. Writing was a pastime I enjoyed as a kid: I wrote poetry and short stories, illustrated them, and stapled my work to make little books. My Life as a Pencil, for example, was a thrilling read.

An unpaid writing gig on the side led to a paid writing gig. Then, more paid work came along. In a messy, fucked-up way, I’d found my “passion and purpose” (Although these days I’d drop the “purpose” part — I don’t believe anyone needs a purpose in order to exist; we are all inherently worthy).

Should I finish up by saying that I’m now a bestselling author, or some shit? The truth is that I’m back to accounting three days a week, but with a firm that’s a trillion times better than the ones I worked for in my thirties. The other days I’m a freelance writer.

Problems still show up all the time: I’m a habitual poo-head who resists people and events on a daily basis. But I constantly remind myself that I cannot nag the universe into being different, and when I let go and accept, the universe shifts ever-so-slightly for the better. Never again has it happened in mere seconds, but thanks to the unfuckwithable power of acceptance, it always happens.

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