Seventh Floor, Going Down

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I know if I don’t capture the feelings now, I still might be able to later — but they will never feel as they do now.

Today.
My last day of work.
That elevator — the sound made me want to cry.

A hot day, not too different from today.
23 years ago.

5th Floor, Building 2 — right outside my door was the elevator bank.
Mary Susie Conti — the woman I was replacing — was loading up my head with all that I needed to learn.

I was paying rapt attention, but every so often I sussed out the environment. It felt so different to be in an office in the middle of the day instead of home with my two small children, who were now 45 minutes away in a new daycare. Every time I thought of them, my heart hurt just a bit, and I had to intentionally put it out of my mind.

The feel of the air with the open window (at a time when we were allowed to open windows — now I can’t imagine), the humidity in the office, and the sound of the elevator’s electronic voice blathering all day:

“Fifth Floor Going Down… Fifth Floor Going Up.”

Over the next few days and weeks, I slightly startled the 50 or so times a day I heard that electronic voice announcing the floor it landed on and which direction it was going.

Eventually, it became background noise and I didn’t hear it at all. But when I did tune in, no matter the day or time of year, I was transported back to being 26 years old and learning my new job from Mary Susie Conti.

For the past 8+ years, I haven’t come into the office much. I was on a reasonable accommodation and working from home long before COVID. But I have to say — it always felt like home when I did go in.

I honestly believe one of the reasons I got the job is because of that “home”-like feeling.

When I interviewed for that first job, I went through a series of interviews back to back.
Martha Shea was the first person who interviewed me.

Right off the bat, she made it known that if I didn’t pass her muster, the two doctors I would soon interview with would take her consideration into account.

She also made sure to tell me she was prior military and instantly started off by asking about my own military experience.

I was slightly intimidated, but something about her already felt familiar. She was my kind of people — I could tell.

I don’t even know how I wasn’t prepared for the question:
“Why do you want to work here?”

I mean — for heaven’s sake — if a person can’t answer that, they shouldn’t get the job!

Martha asked me that question and my truly unprepared, but terribly raw response — when I looked around — was:

“Because it feels like home.”

Martha cracked a genuine smile and asked me why.

I looked around, asking myself the same thing to understand why I had that feeling.

I saw the government-issued 3-month calendar, where you save paper with the months on both sides. The chairs. The carpet. The signage. The halls. The overhead pages. Men with military regalia ambling down the hall. The feeling I always got crossing from a state line onto federal property.

So that is what I said.
I first pointed to the calendar on the wall, then the chairs. I mentioned something that was broken in a corner and talked about how it all felt familiar.

I didn’t think about puffing everyone up with “helping veterans,” giving back, stories of grandfathers who fought in wars — or all the other things I subsequently heard over the years when I eventually became the interviewer.

My answer was candid and from the heart.

If my interview were a cartoon, Martha would have started off in a knight’s costume — complete with armor — to intimidate me.
Then it would have fallen off, and you would have seen her heart literally melting.

She proudly walked me down the hall to the person who would eventually become my first supervisor at the VA.

With a hand on my shoulder, she introduced me in a way that made it clear she liked me and wanted to take me under her wing.

I already felt protected — and that I was with my people.

Today, I drove into for the last time.

The sunrise down the street from me. A new dawn to a brand new type of day for me.

I saw people parking, taking out their bags and lunches, putting on badges.
These people were donned in suits, scrubs, lab coats — and everything in between.

I vividly remembered those early days of parking in that same lot. The uniforms, cars and smells were so unfamiliar at the time. Now they are all second nature. All these years I have been taking the same steps into the same building and heading to the elevators —

“1st Floor, going up.”

Today, I ran into one of my coworkers walking into the building.

We got on the elevator together, and I heard that same electronic voice, unchanged in all these years.

I asked him about his two young girls. He filled me in and then asked how old my children were now.

28 and 26.
My youngest is now as old as I was when I first started working there.

I worked there for their entire lives.
In some ways, I missed their lives because of that place.

I don’t know who I am without it.

Some people would say I worked there a lifetime (23 years).

Others, who have 40, 45 years in the government, would still consider me a newbie.

It’s all relative. But for me — between the military and the Department of Veterans Affairs — it’s been my whole life.

I had jobs in different buildings and offices. Not too many were close to an elevator bank.

Today, as I left, it was:

“7th Floor, going down.”

It felt like:

“Esterina, now going down and out — into the wider world.”

I sat in the parking lot for a long time.
I read the cards I was given, sitting in my car with the air conditioning blasting.

I felt nostalgic — but very excited.

Driving away was the hardest part.
No tears, but a large lump in my throat.

A piece of my heart will always be there — in those buildings, carpets, walls, files.

And just like that — “7th Floor Going Down” — one chapter closes, and another begins.

Who in the World is “Modern” Technology for?

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I’m on a tear about technology today. It started this morning at work when I was asked to make two calendars from one our workgroup has on SharePoint. Simple enough, right? Make a new calendar, move what’s needed, and delete it from the old.

But no. It’s not that simple.

Without going into all kinds of boring details, there’s no longer a clear button to create a new calendar (which, by the way, used to be hidden—and knowing how to find that one was a feat in itself).

Now there are new apps that don’t even have names a normal human would recognize. After spending far too long searching, I found a “calendar-looking” app. I clicked on it and was asked to request access. Then I was given a link to check the status of my request.

About ten minutes later, I got an email from IT about my request. The app wasn’t approved yet—but I received another link to a help page for finding apps. That’s where I learned there’s a link to the “Classics.”

The classics are documents, calendars, announcements, group chats…

The classics? You mean what real, living, breathing employees actually use? Am I that old?

I just can’t with this stuff.

I thought I had finally learned how to use my “smart” TV. I know what the remotes do, how to add and delete apps, subscribe to channels—things my older family members still struggle with. Maybe my kids have it figured out, but I’m not so sure.

Then I went to watch a few holiday movies I had purchased. Turns out Fandango, where I bought them, had been sold. I spent about an hour trying to find my account, reset passwords, and locate my “purchased content.”

I never found it.

We just ended up watching what was free.

What was so wrong with owning something you could hold in your hand and keep in your cabinet? I still don’t know what happened to the movies I paid for.

My car is a 2017 Prius. It has a touchscreen and built-in navigation that never seems to work. Or when it does, I can’t figure out how to turn it off. I’ve tried every button, every option—there is no “End Route” or anything like it.

Sometimes Siri works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

I probably don’t know 80% of what my car can do. And this car is already years old. I don’t even want to think about what newer models can do that I’d never figure out.

Every time I get into my husband’s Tesla, I can’t even find the button I need because updates have moved everything around.

I look around and I don’t see many people using all these features with ease.

And when I do figure something out—it stops working.

I programmed Alexa with a morning routine, but the news app kept cutting out halfway through. It worked for a few days, then stopped. I changed the news source—same thing.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to play a song or album I know I purchased, only to find it gone from iTunes.

Family Share barely works. Apps don’t transfer. Music doesn’t show up. I’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to make it work.

What is it even for?

We had a smart oven for a short time. The buttons were so sensitive that brushing it with your sleeve could turn it off. One of our cats walked across it and turned it on.

There was a lock feature—but then the “smart” features didn’t work.

I still don’t know why we bought a smart oven.

Same with our smart lights. They constantly unlink from the system. When you just want to turn on a light and forget the programming, they blink uncontrollably.

At that point, your options are:

  • sit in the dark
  • or pull out your phone and spend 5–10 minutes fixing it

We also have a Wi-Fi-enabled dryer. I have no idea how to use that feature—or why I would.

At work, I’ve seen hundreds of really useful tools built over the years—things that genuinely made life easier. But most of them have broken over time due to updates, moved systems, or lost knowledge when someone left.

I spend more time trying to fix what used to work than creating anything new.

Even here—on WordPress, where I’m writing this—I feel the same way. Every time I log in, something has moved or changed names. I’ve been using this platform since 2015, and all I really know how to do is write a post.

I know it can do so much more—but every time I try to learn, I hit a wall and give up.

This just isn’t cool.

This is a colossal waste of time.

The world is getting too complicated, and regular people can’t—and don’t want to—keep up with the constant changes forced on us.

Can we just… slow down?

Competition drives faster and faster innovation—but for what?

Just because we can create something doesn’t mean we should.

It reminds me of the industrial revolution. We figured out how to produce more and more, faster and faster. Then we created marketing to convince people they needed it all.

Now we work more to afford things we never needed in the first place.

Life didn’t necessarily get better because our homes got bigger and our possessions multiplied.

Maybe we need to pause.

Technology for consumers isn’t working as well as we think. People haven’t caught up—and honestly, the products haven’t either.

I wish the tech world would stop creating new things for a while and focus on making what already exists actually work.

I know humans thrive on innovation. Henry Ford said, “If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said faster horses.”

But right now, it feels like we skipped right past cars and are handing people spaceships they don’t know how to fly.

Honestly—if I’m someone with a master’s degree, living in a first-world country, and still struggling to keep up…

Who exactly are we building all this technology for?

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Soap Operas & Modern Times

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Flashback to March 4, 1997—North Shore University Hospital in Long Island.

I wake up (or think I do) in a recovery ward. Everything is a blur. Voices are talking around me—about something… me? There is one voice I recognize.

“Mag her.”

Mag her?

I realize the “her” is me. The voice is Dr. Seaman, my OB/GYN.

As my mind slowly clears, I remember: I had a scheduled cesarean section. I was conscious during the procedure, my then-husband by my side, as our firstborn son Thomas—breech—was brought into the world.

More than 22 years later, I still don’t know how aware I truly was in those moments. What I do remember is my blood pressure spiking and being in the high-risk maternity ward, hearing that phrase—“Mag her.”

The “mag” was magnesium. To this day, I don’t know why. But I do remember what was on the TV.

Days of Our Lives.

Kristin DiMera had just had a baby too.

In my foggy state, I was oddly captivated. I wanted to see my son. I remember a brief moment of him on my chest, flashes of a camera, and then he was gone. I was in pain. And the show became a strange, steady distraction.

A week or so later, home with a newborn, exhausted and in pain, the TV was on again. The same characters. The same storyline.

My husband went to change the channel, but I stopped him.

I wanted to see what happened next.

And that’s where it began—my quiet, unexpected relationship with Days of Our Lives.

Over the years, it stayed with me.

When Thomas was little, I’d watch on days off while working as a cook in the Coast Guard. Later, as a military wife and reservist, I’d put both kids down for naps, make popcorn, pour a Diet Coke over ice, and settle in.

In 2002, when I started working full time, I moved to VCR tapes. Later, DVR. Now, streaming. The format changed, but the habit remained.

Sometimes I watched daily. Sometimes weeks went by. But it was always there when I needed it.

The characters became familiar—almost like extended family.

The Hortons, Bradys, DiMeras.

The town square, the Brady Pub, the traditions, the chaos. The comfort.

Yes, there were the ridiculous storylines—possession, comas, people returning from the dead. But woven in were real things: loss, addiction, depression, relationships, identity.

And strangely, it helped.

At different points in my life, the show mirrored something I was going through.

When Jack and Jennifer were getting divorced, I was too. I remember feeling like a failure. Then one night, I turned on an episode and saw their storyline unfolding the same way. It felt… oddly comforting.

Years later, after a difficult stretch with my own mental health, I returned to the show to find a character struggling in a similar way. Again, it helped.

When addiction, illness, or loss showed up on screen, I didn’t feel so alone in my own experiences.

It’s easy to dismiss soaps as melodramatic—and they are. That’s part of their charm.

But beneath that, there’s something else.

They tell stories about being human—messy, imperfect, resilient.

And sometimes, seeing that reflected back—even in a fictional town like Salem—can be grounding.

A few days ago, the show jumped ahead by a full year. Curious, I looked it up and learned there’s uncertainty about its future.

It made me pause.

Because while the show has changed over the years—and so have I—it has been a quiet thread through so many seasons of my life.

I don’t watch it the same way anymore.

But I still understand what it gave me.

Familiarity. Distraction. Comfort. Perspective.

Like sands through the hourglass… so are the days of our lives.

 

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Why Telework Works (For Me and the Workplace)

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Teleworking really isn’t for everyone. There are so many people that I talk to who tell me they could never do it. If you even think it’s not for you, it’s not. However, if it’s something you have the opportunity to do and are considering, allow me to share why it works for me and how I feel it is beneficial to our workplaces. I now have a full year under my belt of at least one day a week. A few months ago I moved to two days, and most recently, since my office has been under construction, all my work time has been at home.

For starters, I can sleep in much later. When you eliminate the commute time, parking, and walking an additional quarter of a mile to my office, and the time I was spending before work to shower, dress, and primp for the day, I am able to sleep in over an hour longer than I was before. I could stand to sleep in even longer, but I get up to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee, a healthy, non-rushed breakfast, and a short meditation session before I log in for the day. My morning routine is so much more pleasant. I no longer feel tired all the time or dread getting up.

Next, I’m unbelievably comfortable for a variety of reasons. The most striking is in the attire I can wear. When I dress after waking up, I put on comfy workout clothes so I can go for a lunch run later in the day. Also, my desk, chair, and surrounding workspace at home are completely suited to my height, likings, and taste. I can control the temperature of the room. Throughout the day, my cats and dog come to visit, hang around, and sleep on or near me. Their presence reminds me I’m home if I briefly get swept away in workplace politics. Not to mention that looking at them and petting them just seems to soothe my soul.

I move around much more. My chair swirls and doesn’t have weird side bars that give my legs bruises when I curl up in my chair as I type away. I’ll take stretch breaks and do some reinvigorating yoga poses that I wouldn’t dream of doing at the office. When I get up to make cups of warm herbal tea throughout the day, instead of walking across the room to the microwave like I do at work, I walk down a flight of stairs and don’t feel grossed out by the water supply or my surroundings. But my favorite is that I use my lunch break to run. I used to use that same break to walk at work. This required changing my shoes, never being appropriately dressed for the weather, and worrying about getting too warm. Now I can perspire as much as I’d like without worry.

I am so much more focused and productive. I’m not distracted by idle chatter or sharing my own nonsensical stories. There are no crazy alarms going off, constant overhead announcements, or loud trash barrels rolling by as I try to converse over the phone. I don’t see or hear the dings and distractions of other people’s computers, desk phones, and cell phones. I don’t overhear anyone else’s personal or professional conversations. Two job roles back, I worked for 7 years in a corridor that had a one-person, non-gender-specific restroom right down the hall from my desk and around the corner from the transportation department, where the drivers would pop in and out all day to use the facilities. The noise of a flushing toilet and horrendous smell would permeate my senses all day. One of my favorite funny memories from that job was when my then boss, who had an adjacent office to mine, said, “Not only do we have to put up with a bunch of sh!t, but it actually has to smell like it too.”

Along the lines of focus, I pay attention during conference calls like I never had before. Unless I have a part to play in a conference call meeting, at work I find it nearly impossible to pay attention. I’m in front of my computer and always multitasking. Now I use conference call times to walk around the house and do some mindless work. I’ll sometimes sweep, start dinner, grab the mail, or do some other random things. Because I’m physically moving while mentally listening and not trying to do two mental activities at once, I am paying far more attention than I ever had on calls before. I’ll often unmute my phone and pipe in or stop to take notes in my email. That is something I hardly ever did at my desk.

It’s overall healthier too. I am in touch with what is going on outside weather-wise because I have windows. Many spaces I have worked in over the years have had no windows or access to the outside. Sometimes, on a sunny day, I will take my laptop out to the deck and actually feel the sun on my skin. The air quality at home isn’t “iffy.” I’m eating better too. At the office, if I forgot my lunch or decided I am not in the mood to eat what I brought, I would stand on a long cafeteria line and purchase something overpriced and not quite as good for me as the things I have at home.

At the end of the day, I log off and hop into the shower. I’m dried and ready for the evening before I would have even been on I-91 sitting in traffic and feeling extremely agitated.

Monetary savings in food, gas, and clothing. Comfort. Healthier atmosphere and food. More sleep. More time. All good stuff, huh?

Enough about me—this can reap great benefits for employers as well.

For starters, there is likely less unexpected or short-term notice time off. Snow days are just as productive and not to mention safer on both ends. If an employee doesn’t feel well but slugs into the office, other employees get sick, then they get their children sick. Then the children need to stay home, be picked up from school, or not be allowed in daycare, which is more time off for others. An employee without a telework agreement who opts to stay home will cost the organization a full day of work. An employee with one who opts to work sick from home loses the organization very little. Additionally, a doctor appointment in the middle of the day before telework for either my children or myself used to mean a whole morning or afternoon off—usually the afternoon, because trying to find a parking space by 8am where I work is like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Speaking of parking and space, allowing employees to telework creates both. Office space in many organizations is at a premium. Even having everyone telework one day a week (staggered) would free up 20% of office and parking space.

There is overall less wasted time throughout the day. Lines at the coffee shop, lines in the cafeteria, waiting for elevators, looking for an open bathroom, being in a queue just to warm up food in the microwave, that third Wednesday of each month where the computers reboot for what seems like infinity… just to name a few. Not to mention a lot of time chit-chatting and socializing. Yes, there are times the remote connection kicks me off, but the overall time savings favor the employer with all the other time wasters that happen in the office.

Safety is always an issue. When I was the strategic planner for VA Connecticut, one couldn’t imagine the number of complaints that would come in every week about air quality, requests for asbestos checks, mold checks, ripped carpets that folks trip over, furniture with sharp edges, etc. When it rains or snows, someone was always bound to fall—meaning a visit to employee health, days off, workers’ comp… all kinds of stuff no employer really wants.

Employees are happier when they aren’t rushed, eating well, sleeping more, saving money, moving around, and feeling like their employer is doing something mutually beneficial for both of them. How can you go wrong?

Well… many things can go wrong. That could be a whole other blog. It may be comforting, however, to know there is some strong, sound advice, policies, and guidelines out there. My organization, for example, has trainings required by both the employee and supervisor before beginning. Additionally, clear expectations are required to be written up, and it comes with the caveat that either party can terminate it at any time. Why not swipe some of these best practices from a person or whole organization that does it well? There are hundreds of articles on the web and in HR journals around the world about why it’s a win-win for all to adopt it, and nearly none on how terrible it has gone.

For now, if you are thinking about using an existing policy or implementing one in the workplace, these are some of the reasons I would humbly advocate for it on both ends. I am sure I’m missing many more benefits! Please don’t hesitate to pipe in or comment if you know of any. Horror stories are welcome too!

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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One of my “co workers”

View from my desk

On Vagueness

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

via Daily Prompt: Vague

There’s something about vagueness that catches my attention now in a way it didn’t before.

When an answer or a story feels vague, it’s often easy to brush past it. Sometimes there are harmless reasons—protecting a surprise, avoiding unnecessary drama, or simply not having a clear answer yet.

But other times, vagueness feels different.

Subtle. Slightly off. Like something isn’t quite being said.

I’ve started to notice that feeling more in my own life. Not as a clear thought, but as something quieter—more like a small internal pause. A moment where something doesn’t fully land.

And if I’m being honest, I can think of many times I’ve ignored it.

Times when answers didn’t quite add up, but I didn’t press.
Times when something felt off, but I told myself it was nothing.
Times when I wanted something to be true badly enough that I didn’t question it.

Looking back, I can usually see that I knew—at least on some level.

Not in a loud, obvious way. But in that quiet way that doesn’t demand attention… unless we’re willing to give it.

It’s not always about distrust or assuming the worst. It’s more about noticing when something doesn’t fully settle, and being willing to stay with that feeling just a little longer.

Maybe ask one more question.
Or simply not rush to smooth it over.

I think most of us have felt that small internal signal before.

The real question is whether we listen to it—or explain it away.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On the Wonder of: What’s wrong with me?

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Have you ever sat at work at your desk, in front of your computer, and felt completely immobilized? Perhaps staring at the screen, not being excited about a single thing you should be working on? Conceivably, like me, you’ve procrastinated with just one more thing before you delve in—one last bathroom trip, one more cup of coffee, one last check of your personal phone sitting off to the side… for the 15th time… in the past 5 minutes.

Maybe you’ve been so unmotivated while sitting at your desk that you’ve taken to Google “motivation,” “new jobs,” “career changes,” “inspiration”… and alas, you become desperate because nothing is lighting a spark. So you Google “depression” or “what’s wrong with me?”

I used to be motivated when I was younger. I was the most motivated, happy person I knew—if I was honest with myself and took a break from being so focused to notice that others around me didn’t exactly have the same spark in their eyes about the silliness and mundane work we were doing. At some point, I started to feel my energy and motivation drain. It was depressing because that didn’t feel like me.

After Googling any and all possible search terms to unearth whatever could possibly be wrong with me, I slowly started to tap into a new reality. I began to wake up and realize what a cog in the wheel I’d been—just a small part of a big, giant system churning out widgets at a rapid pace, more rapid than anyone could want them. When people were sick of their widgets and had one too many, advertising was invented to convince people that they should want and need more than they are satisfied with, or they will not be happy or “successful.” So people kept working harder to churn out more widgets, only to buy more—only needing to work harder and longer to do so… only to be constantly chasing their own happiness and wondering what was wrong with them.

A quick Google search on my smartphone this afternoon revealed to me that butter was invented anywhere between 10,000 and a few hundred years ago. Just a small range, right? Nonetheless, sometime, somewhere, at some distant point in time, a human being not too different from you or me sat churning butter at home thinking, “I can’t wait to finish this churning—it’s so monotonous.” The cream likely came from a cow just yards away on the farm, not but a few hours before. It’s likely the butter-maker fantasized about a device that could do this for them, so they could spend more time enjoying life.

Perhaps the butter-maker didn’t overeat butter because he or she knew how much work went into it. Perhaps they didn’t overeat anything at all because they understood how much effort went into getting the food before them, period. If they didn’t hunt and gather it themselves, they knew the individual who had and likely exchanged their butter for it.

At some point in the past few hundred (or thousand) years, humanity’s inventions surpassed our common sense. We made machines to do just about everything we used to do, including butter churning. As a race, we literally left our homesteads and went to work in factories to make things that people needed. The machines churned widgets out so fast that we made what we needed fairly quickly. It should have stopped there—taking only what we needed.

But we kept on churning it all out.

It was monotonous—perhaps even as monotonous as churning butter manually. The only way to get out of this precarious situation and move on to bigger and better things was to churn out widgets with more speed and adeptness than your co-workers around you, so you could instead supervise the line from the catwalk above. It was probably around that point in history that we stopped working together as a human race and started to compete in ways that were harmful to us as a species.

The shiny new line supervisor watching from above might have realized that it could feel quite lonely at the top. Perhaps he looked down at the line and missed the camaraderie and teamwork. However, with that increase in pay and social status, he wasn’t about to say anything. He “made it,” after all. He should feel happy. But he doesn’t. What’s wrong with him?

Just a mere few hundred years later, we live in a world where we want for nothing, yet face ridiculous, cutthroat competition. So much so that our young children in elementary schools are on medications because the stress of having to “succeed” is too much to handle; and there is so much stimulation coming at them from every angle that they have difficulty focusing.

We are sitting at desks, churning out reports no one reads, crunching numbers that can be manipulated so many ways they’ve become useless, and feeling superior for going through more emails than the person next to us. We are pressured to keep up the sales numbers—sell, sell, sell—beat the competition, beat your neighbor, and keep improving upon all of this before your next performance review.

To what end?

At least back in the manual butter-churning days, we felt connected—to our food source, the earth that fed us, the animals that provided for us, our families and friends that we worked collaboratively with on a regular basis in exchange for life’s simplicities. There was a sense of purpose and belonging. One could see the fruit of their labor. Rarely did anyone take more than they needed.

There was no need for speed and churning out widgets at a rapid pace to meet an invisible, unnecessary sales quota that felt completely empty to you after the pat on the back in front of your team… when you went back to your desk to stare at your computer and wonder why you aren’t happy.

There is nothing wrong with you. There is something wrong with society.

We are so far removed from our food sources, our connection to nature, and simplicity that we have lost our connection and relevance to the earth—and to ourselves. We have little meaning and purpose. We feel bored and lonely. We receive all the wrong messages from society to do more, be more, and compete more. We are too tired at the end of the day to spend quality time with family or friends, to volunteer in our communities, to go to a town meeting, or to fight for anything we care about.

We need to take our lives back.

The butter-churning days may have been monotonous, but at least they had purpose. At least the butter-maker directly benefited from what they were doing. At least society was working together for a common purpose and felt part of something bigger than themselves.

What is the purpose of what we are churning out now?

Machines were invented so we could spend more time enjoying life. Why didn’t that happen?

Daily Prompt

via Daily Prompt: Churn

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On the Tangled web we weave 

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Where to begin?

Daren and I have been in Africa for the past week. We started out in South Africa and are currently in Zimbabwe. The economic disparity between the first world and third world is almost inconceivable. The modern-day effects of corruption and apartheid are prevalent with just a glance out the window. How can such an atrocity exist in the year 2017?

It’s so complicated. We have been having conversations with one another, friends, and locals about this very topic for the past week. I think we were both surprised at how much the lower-paid locals know about the US political system and how thoughtfully they have considered ways to remedy situations created by governments and history. There isn’t an easy answer.

What has also surprised me is seeing firsthand what South Africa looks like today and reading older materials about apartheid. From a brief glance, the population of mixed race did not appear enraged or agitated with one another; it seemed to be something the government enforced. Many citizens were recorded to have said that even though apartheid laws were proposed, they didn’t think they would pass. Then when they did, they thought there was no way they could be enforced in a modern society—until people of non-white descent were suddenly removed from their homes. That was only 50–70 years ago, after WWII and all we learned as a human race. Something similar happened in Zimbabwe, though in that case whites were forced off the land.

Then, interestingly, I heard a different perspective from the “white” side. We have friends from the states who have been living here for the past nine months and have met many locals. They shared perspectives from people of Dutch descent that I had not considered. One idea presented was that when groups with very different ways of living are forced together, conflict can arise. For example, if one group values certain systems like schooling, taxation, and land management and another does not, it can create tension.

From that perspective, apartheid was seen by some as a way to separate groups by how they chose to live. Again, I don’t know all the facts of the Dutch settlers specifically, and we know displacement did occur in many places, but hearing this perspective made me pause. Over time, cultural differences remained, and instead of blending, separation was enforced. Since European settlers built much of the infrastructure, some believed they had the right to maintain those areas while others lived differently elsewhere.

Wow… on a much smaller scale within my own home, having a blended family, I understand how difficult it can be to merge different backgrounds into one living situation. And in my family, we are very similar in many ways—yet it is still challenging. How can entire communities, countries, and cultures with hundreds of years of history be expected to suddenly align?

I know apartheid wasn’t the answer, just as creating separate rules or divisions within my own family wasn’t the answer either.

The truth is, there is no easy answer. Some might point to education, but education doesn’t necessarily make someone right about how life should be lived. What is wrong with living simply, connected to the land? Is the ultimate goal to keep building and advancing, or is there value in simply being present and living fully in the moment?

Does striving to improve the future make someone more important than someone who is content with the present? And if someone believes that, does it give them the authority to decide for others?

We also can’t forget the people who were enslaved, displaced, or killed. These realities are not just part of history—they still exist in different forms. For those who were freed, how do they catch up in a system that requires education and resources they may not have access to? It becomes a cycle that is incredibly difficult to break.

Their cultures may not have required these systems originally, yet they are now expected to function within them. In some ways, that can feel like a continuation of the same struggle, just in a different form.

Affirmative action is one possible approach, but it comes with its own complexities and challenges.

These are difficult questions—ones we don’t often consider in our daily lives. It’s easier to focus on our own routines and responsibilities, which is important too. We need to take care of our own lives to have any chance at contributing positively to the world around us.

One of the most unsettling thoughts I had this week was hearing how much trust people had in their government when apartheid was introduced. Many didn’t believe something unjust could happen in a modern society. It made me reflect on how fragile systems can be if we stop questioning them.

I wouldn’t want to be in a position of making decisions for millions of people. The complexity is enormous.

It can feel overwhelming, but maybe the question isn’t how to solve everything—it’s how we show up individually.

Perhaps it starts with something simple:

  • Be kind to others.
  • Don’t take more than you need.
  • Treat people equally.
  • Think critically.
  • Stay informed and participate as a citizen.
  • Make decisions in your own life that contribute to something larger than yourself.
  • Take care of your health so you can show up fully.
  • Make time to rest and enjoy life.
  • And find one or two things you genuinely care about and focus your energy there.
  • Even small, thoughtful actions can create change over time.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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How to squash a motivated employee

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I’ve lost my mojo at work.

I’ve known it for a while, but this morning it really hit me. I was standing in my closet, wrapped in this oversized gray robe I bought on a whim at Target. It was warm. Comfortable. Easy. And getting dressed for work felt like effort I didn’t have.

My clothes—once something I took pride in—just hung there. Waiting. They suddenly felt stiff. Confining. They represented something I was starting to resist.

Work.

I’ve always loved work. I’ve always taken pride in what I do—whether it was scooping ice cream, solving a customer issue, or building dashboards. I’ve always wanted to make things better. To go above and beyond. To leave people better than I found them.

I didn’t need recognition. I got enough satisfaction from doing things well.

Looking back, I was deeply self-motivated. I built my education piece by piece—CLEP exams, online courses, degrees—while raising kids and working. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it took drive. A lot of it.

And for over two decades, I brought that same energy to my work.

Not because I wanted to climb the ladder. I didn’t. I never aspired to senior leadership. I wanted balance. I wanted to be present for my kids. I wanted to do meaningful work from whatever seat I was in—and then go home and live my life.

And for a long time, that worked.

Until it didn’t.

A couple of years ago, I took a new role. It was a chance to grow, to build something new. There was no clear structure, no defined path—but I saw potential. So I created direction. I built a small, motivated team. I floated ideas, got approval, and we moved forward.

But over time, something became clear.

The support wasn’t real.

The ideas were approved—but not understood. And when challenges came, the support disappeared. Decisions were reversed. Priorities shifted. Conversations that needed to happen never did.

I wasn’t growing anymore. I was managing noise.

And for the first time in my life, I started to dread going to work.

It felt… pointless.

Waking up tired. Getting dressed in clothes that didn’t feel like me. Driving in to sit at a desk and move things around without actually moving anything forward.

Meanwhile, my life outside of work was getting fuller and more demanding. A blended family. Four teenagers. Real life.

So I asked a simple question:

Could I work part-time?

The answer came quickly: “Absolutely. We’d do anything to keep you.”

But then… nothing.

Weeks turned into months. Promises were made, then quietly undone. I adjusted my schedule, continued delivering, met every request—and still, no real answer.

If I had been told upfront that it wasn’t possible, I would have made a different decision. Instead, I stayed in limbo.

And something in me shut down.

Motivation doesn’t disappear overnight. It erodes.

Not too long ago, I couldn’t understand how people became disengaged at work. I saw colleagues who seemed checked out, counting down to retirement, and I didn’t get it.

Now I do.

It’s not laziness.

It’s what happens when effort and impact become disconnected. When leadership lacks clarity, consistency, or follow-through. When people who care stop seeing a reason to.

All the things I studied—leadership, motivation, organizational development—they’re not abstract concepts. They matter. A lot.

The right people in the right roles. Clear communication. Follow-through. Support.

Without those, even the most motivated people start to disengage.

And once that happens, it’s hard to get back.

At some point, I realized something else:

It’s not just about the organization.

It’s about fit.

I’m no longer a good fit here.

And that’s okay—but it also means something needs to change.

Because sitting in a role where I feel like an observer instead of a contributor isn’t sustainable. Not for my mental health. Not for my sense of purpose.

I don’t need perfection. I don’t need constant praise.

But I do need to feel like what I’m doing matters.

Right now, it doesn’t.

And that’s the hardest part.

How do you squash a motivated employee?

  • Ask them to do as you say, not as you do.
  • Ignore their track record when they make a reasonable request.
  • Avoid real conversations about expectations.
  • Give them goals they’ve already surpassed.
  • Approve ideas, then withdraw support when it matters.
  • Don’t follow up. Don’t engage. Don’t lead.
  • Take everything they’re willing to give.
  • Give nothing in return.

 Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Classes, Bonds & Namaste

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Yesterday I learned, by way of Facebook, that someone I went to high school with passed away. I didn’t know her well, but I remember her. It saddened me, but it also warmed my heart to see people come together—old classmates consoling one another, sharing memories, reconnecting in a quiet way.

Scrolling through the comments, I recognized so many names and faces. It got me thinking about something I’ve come to think of as “classes.”

“Classes,” for lack of a better word, are the groups we move through in different eras of our lives. Daren once used the term when I was trying to describe a moment at work—two former colleagues crossing paths, exchanging nothing more than eye contact and a subtle nod. No words, just recognition. A shared history. A quiet understanding.

A class.

Like high school. Like the military. Like a job, a training, a season of life.

My graduating class had over 500 students, and even now, decades later, I recognize almost every face. Time has passed, but something about that shared experience remains. It’s a bond that doesn’t disappear, even when life moves on.

I’ve had many of these “classes” in my life—military assignments, work teams, yoga training, even neighborhoods and childhood bus rides. Not all of them carry the same weight, but each holds something.

A few, though, run deeper.

My high school class.
My first ship in the Coast Guard.
My time in Primary Care at the VA.

Those groups feel like family. Not perfect, not always easy—but familiar. Safe. There’s a comfort that doesn’t require explanation.

Even the lighter connections carry something. When I meet someone from the Coast Guard, or from Long Island, there’s an instant recognition. A subtle shift. Like something in me already knows them.

That feeling—that quiet recognition—is why the word Namaste has come to mean more to me over time.

Not just a greeting, but an acknowledgment:
I see something in you that I recognize in myself.

It’s always there, but we don’t always notice it.

Moments like this—watching people come together, remembering someone they shared a piece of life with—remind me that those connections matter. That the threads between us don’t disappear.

And that recognizing them, even quietly, is a gift.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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A Cold August Morning

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Thursday, August 27, 2015

I am walking our dog Koji. It is the first day this summer when I am out in the early morning and the air actually feels cold. I think about how it always feels this way at this time of year. Each summer there is a specific day where I wake up and it’s a bit chilly, unlike the day just before. I recall the first time I had this realization just 13 years earlier. Tears fill my eyes, a lump fills my throat.

That day was August 26, 2002. Until that day in since Tommy (my oldest son) was 15 months old I had been a stay-at-home mom for the most part. I was in college and I worked part-time at A&P and was in the U.S.C.G Reserves, but only opposite my ex-husband’s shifts. At that time Tommy was 5 and his sister Gabby was 3. It was my first day of work at what I considered at the time a “real” full-time job. It was also Tommy’s first day of kindergarten. When my alarm went off that morning the sad realization that I had to get out of bed before my body or the kids woke me up was startling. My initial gut reaction was that it would only be for today, but it quickly sunk in that this would be the sensation I would have every morning going forward. Ugh. I wasn’t quite ready to go into the work force. My then husband and I were really struggling to make ends meet since he got out of the military just a few months earlier. My working full time was a necessity for us. I felt extremely tired. I distinctly remember when I walked from the bedroom to the bathroom that morning that it felt cold. It was so very unlike the warm summer mornings I had been used to, even just the day before.

I begrudgingly waited for the shower water to warm before heading in. I wasn’t sure how the new morning routine would work, how long it would take to get ready, and get the kids dressed and fed before dropping them off at their new daycare. I was a bit worried. Nervous butterflies. My husband went to work hours earlier for his own shift, and I was left to get the kids ready for this first day of something new for all of us alone. I dressed and woke the kids. They too were not used to being woken up. And by golly – it was just chilly in the air. Somehow I don’t remember much about the morning or how I got them situated or where they thought they would be going; but I do remember being cold when we first got in the car, and driving over to Buttons & Bows daycare in Naugatuck. They weren’t nervous or excited or sad – they just were. It was me who had those feelings. Overall I was sad. Today was Tommy’s first day of kindergarten, and neither I nor his father would be there to witness this very special occasion. The bus would come pick him up and cart him off to school with the other children whose parents worked.

Somehow the sadness quickly passed as I started the drive to the new job, trying to navigate unfamiliar roads with a print out of map quest directions in hand. More nervous butterflies. Where to park? Wow, there are so many people who work here walking into the building! Will I find the right room in this massive hospital I was entering? Am I really qualified for this job?

Somehow I made it to the correct room to start a two-day orientation. Everything was new and unfamiliar. I was almost in a trance, there was too much to take in and it wasn’t all quite registering. Sounds, lights, colors, smells. The VA Hospital felt like the military somehow. Familiar, but not quite. At certain parts of the day I thought about being home with the kids and how much fun we had that summer. Then I thought about them at Buttons & Bows, and how they must feel similar to me. I felt sort of guilty for some reason. Lunch time came and I went outside. What struck me the most was that it was hot! I had to take off the sweater I put on at the last minute that morning. I ate my lunch in the warm sun, alone and nervous. I didn’t define myself as someone who worked outside the home. I felt like an impostor. I checked my two day old cell phone that I had just gotten from Cellular One that previous Saturday. No one called. That must mean the kids are doing well. I went back inside and finished up the day.

When I got home that evening the kids had already been picked up and were settled in at home. They were beaming about their day. They were OK! Tommy told us as much as he could in 5-year old vocabulary about school. I was sorry I missed it but glad to know that they were happy. I wasn’t as excited about my day as they were, but it was a success. I came to the sad realization that as they were going to get older I would be missing many other things in their lives. This is a normal and expected part of children growing up, but worse for parents who work.

The next day I woke up and it was cold again. And by the time I left work in the late afternoon it was downright hot [again]. It was the same the next day, and the day after. Until the crisp autumn days began to swallow up some of the heat, and when I left work those afternoons there was a chill in the air. And so it goes, the seasons change. The winter came and I had to really bundle the kids up in the morning. Just a few short months later when the snow melted and there were signs of spring, my car felt surprisingly warm in the afternoons. Eventually the mornings warmed up too. Before I knew it, it was late August again and I remembered the previous year’s sensation when I experienced the first of the cool mornings and hot afternoons. A year went by in a flash. Then so did two years, then three, and now 13.

Today, 13 years later, this first cool morning air following the humid summer mornings is all too familiar. This particular morning I am filled with an unbelievable sadness. I blink back the tears as Koji happily pulls me along on his leash. I inhale deeply trying not to cry, becoming slightly distracted from my own thoughts in an attempt to make smoke rings like I’ve seen pictures of American Indians doing with the condensation of my breath. I notice the heat from Koji’s breath too. Tomorrow we will be bringing Tommy up to college in Maine. His entire school career had come and gone in the blink of an eye. A few months ago our families came from New York and North Carolina for his high school graduation. Cards from relatives near and far poured in. It was our mailbox that had the graduation balloon. It was hot out. It seemed like there would be so much time before he had to leave for school 3 months later. And here we were. Tomorrow was the day.

Hints of light are coming through the sky as Koji and I walk the streets of our familiar neighborhood. I reflect back on the past 13 years. They went by so quickly. When I first started working I imagined I would only do so until my ex and I got back on our feet. I really wanted to be home with the kids. That first winter started the many years of snow-fretting that parents who do not work outside of the home likely do not realize. Which parent would stay home when both school and daycare closed? I had to use my vacation days when it was my turn, which diminished time with the kids in the warm months when they were home with little to do. I did however cherish those early snow days. I would make hot chocolate with marshmallows and graham crackers with peanut butter for breakfast. They would squeal with excitement about this special snowy day treat. Years later when the kids were teenagers and there was a snow day, and my now husband and I went to work since they were old enough to stay home; it was Tommy who would wake up and prepare this same treat for his sister and two younger step-brothers.

After the first year passed of my being in the workforce full time, my now ex almost went back into the military. Even with both of us working full time and me keeping my old part time job at A&P, we were still struggling to make ends meet. We were all prepared to make the entrance back into military life. I was kind of excited. I would be able to stay home again and pretty much wherever we got stationed, the location would be a new area to explore. The kids were a bit nervous about this change, but I don’t think they fully understood it. Just before we had to make the final commitment, I got a promotion at work that resolved all our financial problems. We thought long and hard about whether to take the plunge and stay in the civilian world, or head back to the military family life we were used to. My ex wasn’t crazy about going back in and here was out opportunity to make it in the “real” world. I quit the job at A&P and only worked at the VA. The kids were ecstatic. I was a little disappointed, but trucked on.

Just a year later my ex got a new job and huge raise. We were at last not only financially free, but had breathing room. For the first time when I went grocery shopping I didn’t have my eyes on sale items only. When the kids asked for a cereal off the shelf, I was able to say yes. It felt great!

For a short period of two years time while I went back to school to get my MBA, I cut my hours back and had Thursdays off. The kids ended up loving Thursdays. I did too. I would wake up before dark and get a start on my schoolwork. The kids were able to sleep in a little, and when they woke up I would always make them a special breakfast since the other days of the week were rushed. I would then lovingly get them off to school on the bus in front of our condo instead of dropping them off at daycare or with a neighbor. I would go back to my studies, usually taking a break at lunch to walk by the pond down the street and then heading home to whip up a batch of some sort of homemade dessert. The kids usually knew I would have some treat after school waiting for them. They would come off the bus with big happy smiles on their faces while I waited at the door, excited to see me- but also looking past me to see what kind of goody awaited them inside. They’d drop their backpacks and sit at the table with their after school snack and a glass of milk. We would talk about the day and then split up again until dinner time. If it was warm enough they would go out to play with the other neighborhood kids.

I had many different daycare arrangements while the kids were in their early elementary years. Friends and neighbors, different daycare locations, odd shifts with their father watching them for partial or full days. It was a constant struggle worrying if their dad would be late, the sitter or their children would be sick, or the daycare would be closed.

When Tommy was in 4th grade I finished my MBA and was promoted to a new job. I had mixed feelings about it because it meant I had to go back to work full time. I really felt bored in the position I had and was ready for a change. Accepting the new position meant more money and less boredom, but the trade off was that I had less time to be a mom. The choice wasn’t easy. The kids were rather proud of me and were only slightly disappointed that I would no longer be home Thursdays. We had enough money to buy a house and move the kids to a town with a good school system, and into a neighborhood where they could ride their bicycles in the street. Tommy was at the end of 5th grade when we moved to Cheshire. He was excited while Gabby was very hesitant. I had no reservations about moving and continuing to work at this point. It was 2008. I did worry about how we would manage when the kids were teenagers and could get into trouble after school with a lack of after school care as my catch net, but there would be time for that.

Only there wasn’t. In the blink of an eye the years flew by. My ex and I started having marital problems before we moved to Cheshire and they did not resolve themselves. My efforts were spent working to save a failing marriage, then a divorce, new relationship/home/step-kids; working on helping the kids and pets adjust while trying to nurture a new partnership; all of which moved incredibly quickly. At one point I attempted to apply for one day of telework per week. For two weeks while the paperwork was being routed Gabby would excitedly ask me every day if I heard anything back. Tommy was a little too old at the time to care and was indifferent. When I did find out that my request was denied, Gabby put on a brave face and said it will be alright. I myself felt hardened somehow.

Another blink of an eye and I was suddenly teaching Tommy to drive. He got his license, then a job of his own. Before I knew it he was taking SATs and his high school was having student-parent sessions about the college application process. Another promotion opportunity came up when Tommy just started his senior year. I wondered if trying to learn a new job would be too difficult in my increasingly complex home. It was Tommy’s senior year, we just got a new puppy, we were having problems with my husband’s ex, and my own children were having issues with their father. Again I felt a bit bored in my current position and it was a toss up between money and learning versus focused home time and boredom. I took the job.

A whirlwind of college visits ensued and then the application process seemed to be over in a heartbeat. Tommy always wanted a puppy and took the brunt of the responsibility for training, feeding, and walking the dog. The holidays came and went. Tommy found out he got accepted into all the school he applied for. My husband and I went on the acceptance visits circuit. There were suddenly senior pictures & events all around, and then the culmination of the graduation. Now here we are. I don’t know how it happened, but my little boy grew up and was about to move away. Until a few days ago I thought I would be fine, but now that this change is staring me in the face I’m completely broken up. I will be one of those parents who cries and hyperventilates the whole way back home from the college drop off.

I am rounding the corner with Koji back toward my house. In another minute I’ll be inside on one of the last mornings that will feel normal. Of all the firsts and celebrations that make the fanfare throughout the years like first birthdays and other milestone birthdays, first day of school, communion, end of sport seasons, concerts, start of high school, graduation etc; the most transitional moment happens very quietly. There are no family and friends visiting and celebrating or handing out presents or money. Hardly any of our family even knows which day Tommy is leaving. It will be a quiet drop off. Just me, his sister and his step-dad. His dad moved away and is living in Massachusetts, treating tomorrow like any other day. My friends and the people I work with hardly have a clue that my heart is breaking. I knew back in 2002 that I would miss many things throughout the years. Only I did not know at the time how quickly it would go. In these years Tommy learned to read, ride a bike and navigate peer pressure. He went through puberty, had his first kiss, first girlfriend, first heartbreak. We had normal teenage ups and downs without too much drama. Now he was a grown man. This all happened in front of my eyes while I spent these precious years in the workforce.

We are just feet away from my house now. Koji doesn’t want to go back in and very deliberately sniffs the grass across the street. I pause and let him, looking over at my warmly lit home while I shiver in this cold August morning. That same lump fills my throat. I worked for 13 years and let his life pass. Would it have been any different if I stayed home? Did I have a choice? Does it matter? Will Tommy or Gabby ever understand how much they mean to me? I feel the need to let people know how emotionally challenging it is to be a working mom. It can only be worse for a single parent. Most workplaces including my own are not very flexible and do not allow compressed, flex or telework schedules. Would the world be a different place if the organizations understood the challenges faced by single parents or two adults in that work outside the home? All I can do now is go back inside, put on a brave persona, take my little boy to college tomorrow and continue on knowing that I did the best I could. It will warm up and be hot this afternoon. The mornings going forward will be cooler, and soon the days will as well. The seasons will go on and life will continue.

“Come on Koji-poo” I say. Koji looks up at me, I give him a slight tug on his leash, and we head back inside ready to tackle another day.

 

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