Dogsleds, and why I’m not moving

I started writing this after the announcement about the USDA relocation plan. The link is light on details and heavy on gaslighting, so read at your own peril. I’m working on another post about that, including the letter I’m writing to USDA and my representatives, but for the purposes of this post and launching this effort, it boils down to this:

• They are planning to move over 2,600 of the 4,600 DC-area USDA employees out of the National Capital Region.
• They are vacating the building I’ve been working in since February.

This does not necessarily mean that my job is moving. Details are essentially nonexistent, but the intent (read: threat) is clear. My job might move. So, I’ll state it plainly: I am not moving.

This experience and other related ones started me thinking about dogsleds.

About eight and a half years ago, in the middle of a breakdown, I started to really put words into an internal framework that helped me understand why I was unraveling what to do about it. The metaphor I used (still use) is the fulfillment dogsled. It’s not a perfect model, but it helps; as George Box (probably) said, “All models are wrong, but some are useful.

For so long, the sled kept moving forward, and I didn’t have to think about why or how. Then, it started to stall. I didn’t know why it moved before, so I couldn’t immediately figure out why it had stopped. Each of the dogs in my metaphorical sled were different channels, ways I was fulfilled. School (then work) was the big dog. Hobbies, family ties, friendships, romantic relationships – these all helped the sled move, but I relied on that lead dog to keep the sled moving. So, I had to feed that big dog. I gave it my effort, energy, and attention to make sure it pulled the sled. None of the other dogs starved [insert joke about fallow period for relationships], but none had to take the lead, at least not for very long.

And then I found a job that couldn’t play the role of lead dog. To be clear, I’m grateful for that job. The people I worked with were great, the work was important, and I found ways to make it interesting. It just couldn’t lead the sled. It also meant I had trouble steering the sled, didn’t know where I might be going. I knew what my path was before, but now I was uncertain, both of where I was going and how I would get there. The schedule for that job meant some of the other dogs weren’t pulling their full weight, either. I was in and out of town on alternating weeks, and I hadn’t figured out how to align that with a healthy social calendar or hobbies. That’s my fault for not knowing how to adapt to the new situation. I had to learn how to prioritize different dogs to find a balance.

Fun aside for friends in the area in 2016–2018: This is the story of Supper Club. I set up that group just a few days after I realized how to get the dogsled back on track.

I let the lead dog take over one more time, putting me back on a path I recognized even if it took me to a place I had never been. I got into the EIS program, and I matched to Oregon. I had, at least for a time, regained my broader direction. My two years in Oregon were incredible. Moving across the country to a state I had never been in before, to a city where I knew a handful of people, was daunting. But, dogsled metaphor in hand, I was ready. And importantly, I knew those two years of adventure aligned with my priorities.

(Maybe I’ll write about that here, and perhaps that’ll focus less on work; there’s already an hour-long presentation about my work experiences there and a four hour-long interview just about the COVID-19 response. Besides, there are only a handful of people who want to read 5,000 words about my time in Oregon, and most of those people are in the stories I’d tell.)

I had different priorities when I left Oregon than when I arrived. Meeting your person will do that. When it came time to leave Oregon, I went to Atlanta because Amy was there. Pandemic-related workplace flexibilities made this more feasible, even if I spent about 18 months waiting for the (ironic) news that USDA was going to tell me to report to the office in Maryland. Still, I was able to ride through that uncertainty with my rebalanced dogsled. Cutting out a lot of the story, we moved to Maryland in 2023. It was facilitated by work, but we moved here for reasons other than work, chief among them being a drive away from family and being near some good friends. (We love you, too, Atlanta friends!)

Circling back to the reason I wrote this post: that is why I’m not moving. I’m here on purpose, and work has been part of that. Whether or not my job will be in this area, I’m staying.