A few weeks ago I started my job as a ramp agent for Southwest Airlines. This was a new-to-me position in a field in which I had never worked but I had daydreamed about for years.
My experience was humbling. I was humbled by the hard work that ramp agents do for hours on end, moving luggage and all manner of cargo. I was humbled by a company that practices what it preaches from day one, namely inclusiveness through opportunity and growth. I was humbled by the willingness of seasoned employees to take me under their wing, and even learn my name to shout a greeting as I approached a gate on the ramp.
I was also humbled by my limitations.
I was physically able to stack luggage and cargo into bins just slightly larger than a bathroom stall. I was able to drive a diesel tug and an electric belt loader within the first weeks.
It took some oomph and teaching, but I was a willing and able student.
(Photo obtained online from southwestaircommunity.com)
I laughed when three heavy boxes came down the belt so quickly that, before I could press the belt's stop button, they rammed into me, and the first popped open, spilling water and live baby crabs down my front. I was already soaked in sweat from stacking over sixty bags for a previous flight, so what was a little sea water going to harm?
My trainers saw my work ethic and my can-do attitude. They said I was doing well,
Yet, part of me wasn't.
I was giving 110%, physically and mentally. Physically being a ramp agent was demanding: we were unloading a flight, scanning every bag, just to reload it with bags and boxes of every size and shape allowable, and often in under 45 minutes.
My body was bruised and sore at the end of every day. I had done some physical conditioning before I started the job, and I wasn't showing signs of injury. Nonetheless, concerns lingered about the wear and tear on my body over the weeks and months to come.
Mentally, it was like stepping into another country, where the language and practices differ substantially from what is ingrained. I am a nurse of fifteen years. I had never heard the terms "push tug" or "belt loader", let alone used a towbar to push a Boeing 737 or Max 8 at work.
And don't even get me started on the acronyms. I thought medicine was bad. Check out aviation.
My brain was so full of new terms and protocols that I could barely walk five steps and remember the city code or flight number on the luggage tag. And this was vital information to my job.
Despite my mental and physical fatigue, I showed up each day fully committed to push on, try again, learn more. Until I hit my wall.
The past two years and counting of the pandemic has required me and my family to do things of which I never thought we were capable. Living in a multi-generational household, ranging from 6 to 80-something years old, we used higher math to fit in two different elementary school classes for the kids, graduate school for my husband, the activities of a grandparent's daily living, and my remote nursing job, into one house.
Yet, we got through it. It was a juggling act on a tightrope in the most mundane of places, our kitchen, living room, dining room and converted office. And we managed the feat, much like everyone else, because we had to.
But at what cost? I believe that some of the costs cannot be seen and only felt or experienced in how we subsequently move through the world.
I have ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). I was only diagnosed as an adult after one and then both of my children were identified by school and their medical providers. It's highly genetic. I have read helpful books and received treatment, but I still have the traits. It can be a blessing of creativity, insight and a hyper focused work ethic. But it can also be a burden of overwhelm and mental shutdown that can lead to anxiety and depression.
Adding up the toll of the pandemic, the demands of being a wife, mom, and daughter, plus the specific challenges of an ADHD brain, I had maybe 20-25% of my resources left to pursue the career shift of my dreams. And entering aviation with Southwest Airlines, and learning the industry from the ground up, was definitely dream territory for me.
But if you do the math, it does not add up. Giving 110% at work, I blew through the 25% I had reserved for "me" and ate into the resources I needed for my multifaceted family. Pursuing this job was not sustainable, physically or mentally.
I felt bad about this until I came across notes I had dashed off during a breakout session on stress management at the Women in Aviation's 2019 annual conference.
Stress, I wrote, can be caused by a positive change, such as a new job.
Stress mounts when the demands exceed personal resources.
Increased complexity is stimulating to a point, but if you surpass that point, it can result in overload.
Know your optimal level of stress and your capacity for stress.
The demands of the new job exceeded my available personal resources. Trying to learn so many things with no previous related experience to draw from brought the level of complexity of my learning experience to brain overload.
The metaphor that I use to describe this is that I was building a new structure while at the same time establishing its foundation.
The issue was not so much that I couldn't learn or do the job. As my trainers would attest, I was learning and I could do the tasks required of a ramp agent.
The issue was that I knew that I it wasn't ultimately good for me to push through my physical and mental stress capacity. This would drain my resources and possibly lead to unforeseen consequences, such as health issues or work-related injuries or accidents.
So, with a heavy heart, striped with the dynamic primary colors of Southwest Airlines, I wrote my station manager that I would not be able to continue in the position.
I felt sadness, disappointment, shame, loss, you name it. But I also felt something else.
Courage.
Admitting that I couldn't do something at this juncture in my life was listening to my inner wisdom. Making a hard decision that was best for me, and served my life's current priorities, took faith in myself.
Sometimes giving something up is not failure, it is courage.
It's funny, not funny, how courage and disappointment can come in the same bite. Maybe it's like salt in caramel ice cream, an unexpected combination that works when applied to real life.
Because real life takes humility and courage. If nothing else, the Covid-19 pandemic taught us that.
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