"If you don't like your job, quit."

I am officially a free woman.

When I first came across the Holstee Manifesto, though its entirety proved very potently truthful, the line that struck me most in my current life was “If you don’t like your job, quit.” This simple statement was both oddly commanding, and extremely encouraging for me to continue forward in my journey for meaningful work.

For several years now, my mantra had been (sadly) closer to one of the following: "If you don't love what you do, you're screwed," or "Work doesn't matter: you do it, you get paid, you leave," or "Only lucky people really like their jobs."

I don't know the entire truth of it, but now, I know what it feels like to have hope. And quitting doesn't feel simple, I know. We all worry about money, about paying our bills or our rent, about being unemployed, about survival. If someone hates their job and you suggest walking away from it, they'll most likely scoff or brush your comment aside as childish or irresponsible. Who quits their job, people have said to me. In this economy, you take what you can get.

Maybe. And I don't want to seem ungrateful. Even though I wasn't happy working there, I am able to admit I was lucky, I made some wonderful friends, I had some irreplaceable experiences (and lessons therein), and I met the love of my life two winters ago, when he wandered in, adorably clad in red plaid, to buy a cup of coffee. Clearly, there are no accidents.

A chapter in my life that at one time felt eternal is now fully closed, is fully ended, is fully behind me. For all the time I spent wondering when I would ever make it to the end of that portion of the journey, I am now having a tough time remembering the specifics, most of it seeming like a breezy three-year blur disappearing behind me as I walked away for the very last time.

Even though, in my head, I heard the words from Aretha Franklin's "Think," (you know, the "FREEDOM, FREEDOM, FREEDOM" part?), driving out of the parking lot after my last shift, (vandalized) apron and hat already in the dumpster (and all other work clothes and shoes soon to follow), the radio appropriately (and nearly eerily) serenaded me with Florence + The Machine's "Shake It Out." It's always darkest before the dawn, she says. Goddamn, don't I know it.

Though it seems to me that dawn is finally here.

Do a lot of work.

I recently attended a college graduation in West Palm Beach, Florida. My little (though not so little) sister and her little (teeny-tiny) boyfriend walked among 500+ students to receive recognition (annnd paper certification!) for their years of hard work, late nights, dedication, meeting goals and losing sleep.

I think most of us could say we know one person or another who turned their tassel this May: whether for an undergrad degree in this or that, a master's of higher learning, or a specifically fine-tuned doctorate in anything from the art world to the medical underworld and beyond.

The question then is: now what?

This isn't really a question reserved for the end of an era or the end of a school year. Rather, it applies more to the beginning of something, to the next-chaptering, to deciding where we go from here.

I can't help but turn to this particular print (one I've been led to through my new endeavors with Holstee) as a means of encouragement not only for myself, but for those who have launched out into the universe, those little artists with big hopes and big disappointments, to you, and to me, I give you this unfailing wisdom:

This here, truer than true, came from radio personality and NPR host Ira Glass. And even though its pertinence still rings true in my life, my life three years past the experience of being a student, of attending classes, of writing papers until three in the morning, I think it especially makes sense for those who are just starting out, walking for the first time on their own two feet, somewhere other than a hallway or a dorm room or an assembly.

The artist's life is a challenge, but it's one of the best lives their is to be had. It's the hardest thing EVER to not be your own critic, to settle into a routine, to give up what drives you in order to make a paycheck. It only makes sense, the world tells you, you need money to survive, artists don't make money, but fast food workers do. I should have majored in something else, you'll start to think, I should have been a pharmaceutical rep or a high school teacher.

I can say this with all certainty because I've done it. And every once in awhile, on my very worst days, I do it still. But we don't quit. We don't continue to seek "goodness" in what we're doing but rather we call it good because it's being DONE. The only thing we give up is the fear that if-someone-sees this/reads this/watches this/finds this-they-will-hate-me-and-know-I'm-a-fraud attitude. We continue on, we continue to recite monologues in the dark and paint until our hands stop working and write until our words run dry or we fall asleep from sheer exhaustion. We, as Glass insists, fight our way through by doing, which is something we might keep doing forever. But ask anyone who's done it, ask anyone who's fought and then faltered and then fought again: worth it, worth it, worth it.