A year ago he got the job. He was a flight instructor. The elation was short-lived. The pay was total crap. It was never predictable (and much, much worse in the winter months) but we calculated it at around 25K/annually. Some winter months would bring in less than our rent amount. After 80K and years of training, he was making barely a living.
According to the almighty google, on the subject of poverty levels in my area:
My jaw actually dropped when I read this. We were/are making way WAY below the “poverty line” for this area.
Aviation is his dream, his calling, his oxygen. He lives for the skies. We married and pledged our lives and it became our dream together. Not just his. Sacrifices? Sign me up, baby. As hard as it is to live poor it’s a thousand times harder to imagine a life settled short of where we felt called.
Still, dreams don’t pay the bills and rice and beans are frugal but not free. Rent money due. The darn heating bill. Holes in the boy’s jeans and too-tight shoes. And on it goes.
The work environment was negative. The management were, well, perhaps you can read between the lines. That’s all I want to say online. The word I would use to describe it is toxic. Oh, and they were implementing a new schedule in two weeks’ time that would require him to be away until 9pm every single night of the week.
Chris is teaching an evening aviation class at a local college this semester to bring in a little extra income. He was told he’d have to quit that. In the middle of the semester! We said pffffft, yeah right.
In the end, we decided that it just was not worth it. Not even remotely. We made the tough (easy?) call that it just wasn’t going to work for our family. Missing a bedtime here and there is one thing. But to all but withdraw altogether from that part of their life? In these quickly dissipating “little years”? Not happening. Not gonna work for our family. I’d rather live in a one-bedroom basement apartment and eat lentils every single day.
A month ago Chris sent me an email and the subject line was: “it’s time for a change…”. It was brewing.
A month later, he’s officially done. He handed in his resignation letter on Friday and by this evening (Monday) after indicating that he would not be conceding to their demands they told him not to bother coming back for his two weeks.
So, we’re free. Done. And it feels amazing.
What’s next? Well, something simpler, for sure. Something part-time, entry-level. Maybe Starbucks. Maybe something at the mall. Heck, anywhere but where we were. We are relishing the thought of a simple job that doesn’t follow you home with guilt and frustration and stress-induced physical anxiety symptoms.
Punch in, punch out. Wait on God to reveal the next step in this season. He is unemployed. Should I be worried? Because I feel an overwhelming giddy excitement, to be honest.
My husband quit his job today, and it feels amazing. He’s a hero to me and three wee adorable little people, whether he flies planes or grind coffee or flips burgers.
It’s good to be loved.
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