Today I quit my job.
When I moved to Ireland, I felt lost. In many ways, the confident, stubborn and determined girl I was in my young adult years, had left me during the pandemic. I had no idea who I was anymore; and no idea who I wanted to be.
Moving to Ireland with no jobs (and therefore identity) and no friends or family (eyes to judge our path), felt easy given that I really didn’t feel like I was leaving much behind in South Africa. I felt like it was a clean slate on which to write my new self. I had no idea what Ireland would hold and was, therefore, open to anything that would come my way.
The general understanding when moving to Ireland is that you need an “entry-level job” – a job that will let you work in order to get your PPS number to go and get a better job. We needed money. Fast. And secretly I looked forward to working a job that would be easy and mindless to let me pursue my real interests on the side. I was genuinely excited to get this job. It was the first solid move in our immigration process. But on a deeper level, I looked forward to the fast-paced, people-driven environment of The Grill and what that might mean for my self-worth identity.
But I found myself there. Or rather, I wrote myself there.
My blank-slate-self-worth, so desperate to be written, filled quickly with The Grill’s ladder of success. I enjoyed the fast-paced environment. I enjoyed working with lots of people again. I enjoyed learning about both Irish and immigrant experiences. And I enjoyed knowing that all it took to be seen as “something” here was hard work. And I was a hard worker.
So, I climbed. I told myself that if I worked hard enough, I could become a manager by a year. I believed that (even if I didn’t really want to work in hospitality) I could become something here.
I applied for my first promotion 3 months after starting. I got it a month later. 7 months in I applied to go to Scotland to open a new restaurant there and train the new hires. I also applied to be a supervisor (the first level of management) within the month.
I went to Scotland. And I hated it. It felt like my entire self-worth was in question the whole time. I felt forced to speak up for myself (something I had long forgotten how to do) and the one thing I believed I was – a hard worker. I wrote a second thing on my slate: I stand up for myself.
After the 4-week trip, I was expecting to hear about my application for management. I pretty much expected to get it. I had worked really hard. I had proven again and again and again that I was growing and trying, and I knew I was capable of the role. I went into my GM’s (general manager) office expecting to claim my promised prize for my dedication.
I was denied.
Well, technically, I was postponed. I was promised the same role in January when another Supervisor was said to leave.
But the conversation was not about how I needed to just wait 2 more months. The conversation was that, as much as my GM wanted to give me the role, the other managers did not. I was told I now had the two months to “really prove myself to them”. The role was given to another applicant. One who, in not only my opinion, had never worked as hard as me and was not as nice as me.
My very first concrete identity in Ireland came under question was I this hard worker I had defined myself as? I’d given it everything. I had pursued it over my own interests – the very things I wanted the freedom this kind of work would allow me to do. No. I know I am. And so, my third identity was written: I am worthy of more.
I still tried to convince them. I trained on a new station in the restaurant. I became the best at it. I took extra shifts when people called in sick or quit. I worked my butt off to prove to them that I was this hard worker that I now knew myself to be.
But it didn’t change anything.
I felt mistreated. Something I hadn’t let myself feel until my last writing on the slate. I spoke to my newfound friends, and they all agreed with the growing antagonism of the situation. I was heart sore. I wanted something to dedicate my hard work to, and this was not it. January came around and I declined my promotion. I told myself that I had been offered it in the year, thereby achieving the goal I had set for myself. I now had proof that I was capable.
I knew that I could continue my work and hoped it would become mindless enough for me to pursue my own interests. I started slowly applying for jobs that excited me, as they came by. Nothing. I entered my second year of immigration with a growing need to find myself. And I went on a journey to do so.
I discovered that I was kind and helpful. I wrote on my not-so-blank -slate that I am interesting and full of ideas. I let myself believe that I can do anything.
The Cheylin that had felt so lost to me, was slowly coming back to the surface. I returned to South Africa (for a visit), so much fuller of myself than when I had left. I knew, coming back to my life in Ireland, that I could create the life I wanted for myself.
But when we got home, we were faced with another uprooting. The Move.
And as stressful as the house-hunt was, and as unsure of our path as we were, I was excited to get to pursue my life and the rest of myself, in the heart of Dublin. We got a chance to start again. New city, new house, new church. The only thing not changing with us; was our job.
After weeks of travelling 4 hours to and from work every day, our promise for a transfer to a Grill in the city was finally dated. We would leave The Grill in Swords on the 10th of August. Just 3 weeks away now.
And yet…
I now knew that I did not want to work at The Grill anymore. I wanted to follow where my determined self would lead. I wanted to create the life I had been so excited to come back to Ireland to do. I wanted to be treated with the same kindness I showed others. I wanted to be rewarded for my hard work. I want to be in a place that values this Cheylin that I discovered I was all along.
So, I handed in my one week’s notice.
And now the job hunt begins.
With Love from Dublin,
Cheylin.
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