It has started. Hubby began applying for jobs outside of academia last week. He doesn’t feel good about it. It must feel like a dream-crushing, soul-selling step for him. But, I have to admit, I’m relieved.
I feel selfish and mean for admitting that because poor Hubby has been so depressed about it. And seeing him depressed is absolutely heartbreaking. But something has to be done. After what he figured to be roughly 150 applications over the last four years, he’s no closer to his dream job. He never got a single phone call or email–no response at all, other than a stack of rejection letters.
The “plan” now is to continue to apply for academic jobs for next year while simultaneously trying to find something immediate, something to get us through.
He got some help converting his mile-long CV into a 2-page resume (because he couldn’t shrink it to one), and he’s been sending it out online, out into the deep space of the internet. Where I hope it will land softly before a pair of sympathetic eyes. Which I hope will result in an interview (or two) and a job.
Because we’re ready for the end.
And when I say “the end,” what I really mean is the beginning. Because it will be the end of uncertainty, the end of waiting, the end of this hellish limbo. It will mean we can finally move forward with IVF or, if we’re very lucky, IUI. It will mean the start of something we’ve been waiting years for: expanding our family of two.