I’ve decided that it’s time for me to retire from selling rebozos.
I never intended to sell them, it’s just that, as I ran a lot of workshops, people kept asking. At first I only brought them to workshops and then through word of mouth alone, I got messages from people wanting them, there was so much demand that I found the process too time consuming (lots of taking pictures and emails). Eventually I had to ask my webperson build me a webshop.
Fast forward to today, 7 years later I’ve noticed over the last couple of years that the process of importing, taking pictures, putting listings on my website, packaging each rebozo, taking packages to the post office, plus the tallying of countless paper receipts for tax purpose, is not only a very time consuming process, it’s no longer bringing me joy.
Not only that, but it’s taking me away from what I feel I am really gifted at, which is creating content. Courses, blogs, books etc. These things give me deep joy and feel part of my soul’s purpose.
Plus the last audit I did of my business showed that the profit I make from selling rebozos represent less than 10% of my income, but it sure takes a lot more time than the things that earn me the most money (my online courses). So it’s time for me to retire from selling them. When my current stock of rebozos is sold, I’ll close that part of my online shop. When I’m ready to close the shop, I’ll recommend another UK seller I trust and who imports from the same ethical suppliers as I do. I may still order a small batch when I run in person workshops (because this is still enjoyable and was less time consuming than online selling).
Reflecting on cycles of outgrowth and shedding
I’m sure you are familiar with the fact that some animals, like snakes or lobsters, grow by shedding their skin or shell. The sign that the old shell or skin has been outgrown is tightness and discomfort. I love this reflection about how lobsters grow in particular.
When I look back at my professional life there has always been a lot of outgrowing and shedding.
As a scientist, I did my PhD in two different labs, and then 2 postdocs in 2 different research centres. Then I worked for a start-up biotech company for 7 years. I wondered if it meant an unusual break in pattern, however over the course of these 7 years there was enormous evolution to my role, from bench scientist to team leader, with the organisation growing from 12 to 100, moving 3 times, merging with another company then being bought by a big pharmaceutical company. It was all quite exciting, and explains why I stayed so long in this company. Interestingly, when the job became boring after the company was bought by a large pharmaceutical company, and I agonised over leaving because I had a months old baby and negotiated a part time arrangement, I was made redundant and it was actually a big relief. After that I went back to academia for 4 years, and I had two completely different roles in two different departments in a very large research centre.
The last 4 years of my scientific career, I straddled two worlds. I trained as a doula, antenatal teacher, and babywearing instructor. I did sling consultations on my day off, and taught antenatal classes during evenings and weekends. What precipitated my departure was attending a birth as a last minute backup doula on my day off, and coming back to the office on Monday morning and thinking, what am I doing here? This is so much more exciting. When I handed over my notice, I felt completely elated.
When people tell me I was very brave to leave a successful scientific career behind to become a doula, I explain that it had nothing to do with bravery, I simply couldn’t not do it. My soul wouldn’t let me. Working in science those last few years felt excruciating; I was chained to something my passion had outgrown. My whole being knew it was time to shed that skin. So I wouldn’t call it brave to walk away. When I left, my spirit soared straight up as if finally set free. I simply had no choice but to change course and follow where my purpose was leading, to work that lit me up from the inside. I was no longer outgrowing that science skin – it had become dead weight.
For a few years I worked as a birth and postnatal doula, antenatal teacher and babywearing consultant. It was so exciting and rewarding! Never in my scientific career had I cried tears of joy before, and this was a regular occurrence in my new job.
I went to countless study days and training. I soon found myself offering workshops to birth professionals, and organically grew towards teaching professionals rather than parents.
As my interests and offerings grew, I soon found myself in a quandary: as a solopreneur, there was only one of me, and too many interests yet not enough hours in the day to meet them all.
What I noticed started to happen naturally, as my new interests grew, is that some of the stuff I had been doing for many years was no longer giving me joy. When this started to happen, I think I knew straight away, but I pushed the feeling away for quite some time. After all, I had invested significant time and effort in the training, and acquired a lot of experience along the way.
For example, in the case of teaching antenatal classes, I had trained with the NCT, and this had included getting a DiPhe in antenatal education, complete with graduation ceremony. When only about 4 years after starting teaching I started to get the unmistakable sign that it was time to move on (in my case the sign is always boredom), I really struggled with this, and carried on teaching for a couple of years after that. When I finally told my husband that I was going to stop teaching the classes, he reminded me that I had made the decision 2 years before.
Still I spent some time agonising over the decision because, whilst it was clear that this was no longer my path, there were aspects of the work I knew that I was going to miss. After stopping when I’d bump into couples who had attended my classes, and they’d ask me if I was still doing it, I would feel a pang of regret.
The same was true when I decided to stop teaching babywearing. I had started teaching closing the bones and Reiki workshops, and the spiritual element of this made my soul sing. I realised that teaching babywearing was no longer spiritual enough for me. Similar iterations happened over the last few years, some came from my spirit, some forced by circumstances (for instance when the lockdowns forced me to move from offering in person workshops to online courses).
There were things I only offered for a couple of years before I felt that it was no longer right.
Stopping doula work was quite hard even if the message to stop was really clear. The message that came was that, unless I stopped this work which was taking so much time, mental space and energy, I wouldn’t be able to start offering the next chapter of what I was supposed to offer.
Even if I have no regrets because this is no longer my path, I still miss aspects of this work. This year I have supported a few families on an adhoc basis in one to one antenatal and postnatal sessions. When this happens, I notice two things: my depth of knowledge in this area, and my missing the deeper connection that comes with repeated meetings. This isn’t enough to make me go back, but these are bittersweet moments.
It feels so linked to the cycle of life, birth, growth, decay, death, and rebirth. There is a time for everything, and we need to let things go if we want to make space for new things. It takes time and acceptance.
As I walk in my favourite forest spot at this time of year, grateful for how much nature has taught me since I embarked on re-immersing myself in it a few years ago, I look at the trees shedding their leaves, and I think: they aren’t holding on, or scared of letting go.
To me it’s the natural cycle of life. A time and season for everything. Only by releasing the worn and outgrown shell of the past do we make room for the new growth waiting to emerge.
How do you know when it’s time to shed something you have outgrown in your work or personal life? What are the signs for you? Please comment below.