work

Resume of a Soft Person (Professionally Confused Since 1992)

/ tammy4nd@gmail.com / Leave a comment
A person smiling in front of large green leaves, wearing a grey top and light pink shorts. They have earphones in and sunglasses on their head, standing against a natural backdrop.

“Resume of A Soft Person”
 An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Four

2–3 minutes

Objective
 To continue being human in systems that confuse urgency with value.
To create warmth, clarity, and connection—even when it’s not on the job description.
To survive with integrity intact.

Experience

Human First, Everything Else Second
 All Workplaces, All the Time
 2008–Present

  • De-escalated adults and children without ever raising my voice.
  • Built trust with people in distress, over the phone and across classrooms.
  • Learned how to stay calm when everything else was unraveling.
  • Treated coworkers, clients, and students like people, not tasks.
  • Earned the kind of compliments that don’t go on performance reviews, but stick with you for life.

Intake Whisperer
 Law Firm #1 & #2
 2021–2023

  • First voice people heard when their life had just cracked open.
  • Listened without judgment, and translated chaos into coherent facts.
  • Created space for people to tell hard truths without flinching.
  • Balanced compassion with boundaries in every conversation.
  • Became the person people asked for by name.

Teacher / Emotional Architect / Keeper of Snacks
 Multiple Classrooms
 2014–2022

  • Taught reading, math, and self-worth.
  • Helped students feel seen, even when the system didn’t.
  • Co-regulated through meltdowns and Monday mornings.
  • Built community, even when support was hard to come by.
  • Knew when a kid needed a break, not a punishment.

Skills

  • Reading a room faster than reading an email.
  • Leading with kindness while holding firm boundaries.
  • Keeping it together when nobody else is.
  • Writing messages that say what people need to hear, not just what they expect.
  • Making people feel safe enough to be real.

Education

Bachelor of Soft Power, Minor in Burnout
 Informal but Intensive Training
 2006–Present

  • Graduated with honors in giving a damn.
  • Capstone Project: “How to Be the Strong One Without Going Numb.”
  • Thesis in progress: “How to Keep Showing Up Without Disappearing.”

References

  • People who remember how I made them feel.
  • Students who still check in years later.
  • Coworkers who could breathe easier knowing I was on the clock.
  • My nervous system, now learning that rest is allowed.
  • Me, finally starting to believe that I am enough.

Narrative Outro
 In the end, this resume isn’t a list of jobs or titles—it’s a testament to a way of being that refuses to let the world define my worth. It’s a quiet declaration that softness and strength can coexist, that caring deeply isn’t a flaw but a form of resilience. Every line here is a reminder that even amidst systems built to drain us, the simple act of showing up with openness and authenticity can rewrite the rules. I’m not chasing accolades—I’m cultivating a life that values being human over endless productivity.

Warmth Isn’t a Job Title (Professionally Confused Since 1992)

/ tammy4nd@gmail.com / Leave a comment

“Warmth Isn’t a Job Title”
 An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Two

People always tell me I’m warm. That I’m “such a light.” That I make people feel seen. I’ve been called sunshine in every workspace I’ve ever entered—schools, sorority houses, law firms, even part-time jobs I barely lasted in. It’s said with affection, usually. Admiration, even. Like it’s a gift I bring into the world. And sometimes, it feels like one.

But it’s also something I’ve learned to weaponize against myself.

Warmth became my strongest asset—and my greatest liability.
Because it kept getting me hired, but never saved me from burning out.

When I was a teacher, I was the one who made kids feel safe. The one they ran to when their parents were in jail or they’d had nightmares or just needed a snack and someone to notice they were hungry. I was the one my coworkers vented to. The one who stayed after meetings to talk through things, who remembered birthdays, who made people feel like they mattered.
And I did mean it. I do mean it. But warmth doesn’t protect you when the roof of your school is literally torn open and your classroom is flooded and no one seems to care that you’re drowning too.

After Hurricane Sally, a piece of metal was hanging off the building, swinging in the breeze. I made a joke one morning—something like, “Maybe it’ll finally come loose and decapitate me, and I won’t have to go inside.”
Everyone laughed. So did I.
But I wasn’t really joking.

I didn’t cry in my car. Not once. That’s not really how it shows up for me. I’m autistic, and my relationship with emotions is complicated. I didn’t sob or scream or punch the steering wheel. I just drove. Every day. Over the same bridge. Past the same water.

And almost every morning, I thought about veering off.

Not dramatically. Not emotionally. Just…logically. Like my brain offering a clean escape hatch I couldn’t stop noticing. If I just angled the wheel slightly to the right, maybe I wouldn’t have to do this anymore. Maybe I wouldn’t have to go back into that building with the flickering lights and the flooded carpets and the trauma pouring out of kids too small to carry it. Maybe I wouldn’t have to pretend to be okay.

Because that’s the thing about being warm: people expect it from you constantly. When you’re the “light,” there’s no room to flicker. When you’re the one who makes everyone else feel safe, no one stops to ask if you are.

So I kept going. I kept showing up. I kept being the warm, glowing presence people had come to rely on. I smiled. I made bulletin boards. I remembered everyone’s favorite personal things and their personal home lives. I played music and danced around the classroom and made my students laugh even when I felt like I was disappearing inside myself.

And it worked.
That’s what’s so messed up—it worked.
I was dying inside, and people just kept telling me how bright I was.

Later, when I wasn’t teaching anymore, the settings changed but the script didn’t. I worked at two different law firms—one big, one small—and in both places, I was the first voice people heard when they called for help. I worked intake, which meant I talked to people on some of their worst days. Car accidents. Medical trauma. Deaths of loved ones. Insurance nightmares. And just like in the classroom, I became good at making people feel safe. Like they could trust me. Like they could exhale.

People opened up to me quickly. I think they could tell I’d listen. That I actually cared. That I wasn’t in a rush to push them through a checklist and onto the next call. I asked follow-up questions. I remembered names. I let people be human with me.

And again—it worked. People praised my “people skills.” My empathy. My warmth. My magic touch on the phone. And again, I was glad to help. I wanted to be good at something that mattered.

But warmth is exhausting when it’s always flowing outward and never back in. You can’t keep handing people pieces of yourself and expect not to go hollow eventually. I was the “bright spot” on every team. The calm voice in chaos. The one people came to when they were upset, even if they outranked me. Especially then.

And I think what hurts the most is… it did matter. It always mattered to someone. But it never felt like enough to matter to the system. Not to capitalism. Not to the structure that chews people up and spits them out as long as the metrics are met.

I could be a ball of sunshine, but the sun doesn’t get PTO. The sun doesn’t get to quit. The sun just rises again—every morning, even when it’s burning out.

I’ve been working since I was 14. Babysitting. Retail. Food service. Odd jobs. Customer service. Admin work. Teaching. Law firms. You name it, I’ve probably done it or something close. At some point, it stopped being a way to grow and just became a way to survive.

And the longer I did it, the more I started to feel like my entire personality was a resume skill. Organized. Compassionate. Adaptable. Emotionally intelligent. A team player. A people person. A fast learner. A warm presence.

Which is to say: marketable. Not whole.
Not really me.

Because no matter how many jobs I did, no matter how good I was at them, they never seemed to lead anywhere. Or maybe they did—but the “somewhere” was just more of the same: burnout, detachment, fleeting praise, and the slow erosion of my inner world. The truth is, I don’t want to spend my life being someone else’s good idea of a helpful person while quietly fantasizing about escape.

I don’t want to be so damn useful that I forget I’m also a person.

And maybe that’s the part I’m still grieving: how many years I spent thinking that being good at work would make me feel like I had a purpose. Like I had a path. Like I was building something that would eventually feel worth it.

But mostly, it just made me tired.
And confused.
And so, so alone.

It’s taken me a long time to realize that burnout isn’t a personal failure. It’s often just the natural outcome of being deeply human in systems that reward detachment.

And I’ve always been deeply human, even when I couldn’t name it. Even when I didn’t cry in the car or melt down at work or fall apart in the ways people expect. I just kept going, quietly breaking down in ways no one could see. But that’s starting to change. I’m learning to notice the cracks before everything caves in.

I’m also learning that being warm isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s not a “soft skill” on a resume or a trait to downplay so I seem more professional. It’s a kind of wisdom. A strength. A way of moving through the world that brings connection, not just productivity. And while it’s been used against me—extracted, expected, taken for granted—it’s still mine.

I don’t know what my next job will be, or if I’ll ever have a “career” in the traditional sense. But I’m not chasing titles anymore. I’m chasing alignment. Sustainability. Reciprocity. Joy.

I don’t want to be the sun that never gets to rest. I want to be a candlelit intentionally—glowing gently in the spaces where it feels good to be seen, and safe enough to dim. Because warmth isn’t a job title.
But it might be the most honest part of who I am.

When I grow Up (Professionally Confused Since 1992)

/ tammy4nd@gmail.com / 2 Comments

Welcome to the first post in a new series I’m calling “Notes from the In-Between – Professionally Confused Since 1992.” This is for anyone who’s ever felt like they missed the memo on how to be a grown-up, or who’s quietly questioning what it means to live a meaningful life in a world that keeps asking for more. It’s part essay, part therapy, part “is it just me?”—and it starts here.

“When I Grow Up”
 An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry One

I’m 32 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Honestly, I thought I would have figured it out by now. I’ve worked hard, done all the “right” things. I’ve been responsible, driven, passionate. I’ve done the soul-searching, I’ve tried the jobs, I’ve paid the dues. But here I am, three decades and some change into this thing called life, and I’m still staring into the void every time someone asks me that classic question: So, what do you do?

The answer? Depends on the year. Or the season. Or the mental health status.

What I do know is this: I love helping people feel seen. Heard. Safe. That’s the through-line in everything I’ve ever done, even when I couldn’t put words to it.

When I was a teacher, I poured myself into my students—into their joy and their pain, into the trust I built with their families, into the hope that maybe, even just for a moment, school could be a place where they felt like they mattered. I brought that same energy to my colleagues, checking in on them when no one else did, trying to be the person who noticed the quiet unraveling under the surface.

In college and even now as an alum, my sorority became another place where I could quietly show up for people. Be the one who listened. The one who stayed up late on the porch swing or texted a check-in after a hard week. I never really needed a title for it—it’s just who I am.

Then came law firms. The first was big and chaotic, but I worked in intake, which meant I was the very first voice people heard when they called. Most of them were distraught—navigating some of the worst days of their lives—and somehow I became a soft place to land. I knew how to listen. I knew how to stay calm when they couldn’t. I knew how to make people feel safe enough to tell a stranger about something deeply personal. At the second firm, which was smaller, I got to go even deeper—speaking to people multiple times, following their stories as they unfolded, being someone they could trust and return to.

I’ve had people call me a “ball of sunshine.” Warm. Calming. Safe. I don’t always see myself that way, but I know I carry that intention with me wherever I go.

And yet—despite all that heart, all that effort—I keep hitting the same wall. It’s like I’m pouring water into a bucket with a slow leak. No matter how meaningful the connections, no matter how good I am at the job, I leave feeling depleted. Like what I do is ultimately…pointless. Or maybe not pointless, but unsustainable. Like no matter how much love I bring to the work, capitalism wrings it out of me until I’m a husk of a human Googling things like how to quit everything and become a forest witch.

I’ve worked since I was 14. Part-time jobs, full-time jobs, all-the-time jobs. I’ve smiled through shifts and swallowed my panic attacks and burned myself out over and over and over. And the older I get, the more I realize how little “work” actually means to me anymore—at least in the traditional, paycheck-equals-purpose kind of way. I don’t want to climb any ladders. I don’t want to hustle for a title that makes me sound impressive but leaves me empty.

I don’t know what I want to be. I just know I don’t want to be this exhausted, this disillusioned, this detached from my own aliveness.

Maybe the better question isn’t “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Maybe it’s “What kind of life do you want to build?” One where rest isn’t earned. One where presence matters more than productivity. One where my warmth isn’t commodified, and connection isn’t a customer service skill.

So no, I don’t have an answer. But I do have hope. I have a deep well of care. I have a longing for something slower, something softer, something real. Maybe I’m not lost—maybe I’m just refusing to settle for a version of adulthood that doesn’t fit me. Maybe not knowing is a form of resistance.

Or maybe I’ll open a sandwich shop that only plays The Rolling Stones and Kendrick Lamar on vinyl. Honestly, that sounds pretty good too.

Next up in the series: “Warmth Isn’t a Job Title”—a piece about what happens when your greatest strength is being the emotional support human in every room, and how hard it is to sustain that in a system that doesn’t value care work. Spoiler: it’s a little bit rage, a little bit softness, and a whole lot of truth.