Finding the Mystical in the Mundane: Grad School Rejections, Pop-up Messages, and Office Dharma

For the last year, my workday routine has looked largely the same:

I arrive at my desk, clumsily unload my comically precarious armful of daily provisions, put my food in the office refrigerator, put my backpack away, and set my coffee and oversized Hydro Flask to the left of my dual monitors. I log in to my desktop and, while my computer and I both wake up, I set about the following ritual:

I clean my glasses, apply some Burt’s Bees, and lather on some hand lotion (depending on the season, I may also put in eye drops or blow my nose and sanitize my hands somewhere in this process). Moisturized and clear-eyed, I turn to my computer to start my digital routine, which always begins with being greeted by what feels like an existential crisis of a pop-up message:

Most people might simply ignore this message before closing it out, as it really is nothing more than an anomalous error code from our printing system. And some days, I fall into that group of people. But other days, the Buddhist in me sees this popup as a little Dharma nugget, and I take a few moments to thank and sit with this uncomfortable reminder.

Obviously, there are a few mental gymnastics that need to occur to get from a pop-up message to a message concerning the nature of reality, but it really is more of a step than a leap than one might think.

A large portion of our waking hours are occupied by the time we spend at work. So, it is fairly easy for our professional roles to become intertwined with, or even come to define, our social identities. This is especially true in a capitalistic society wherein our worth is often defined by our productivity and position. When I see the message, “User AnnaMMcConnell does not exist,” I do not think of the digital profile it seems to be referring to. Instead, my mind goes to the social identity of Anna-the-Office-Worker, which is, to be honest, an identity I never hoped to have.

In fact, I’ve spent most of my adult life actively avoiding the nine-to-five lifestyle in favor of low-wage jobs that I found to be exciting—working in bars, music venues, and hip restaurants, gigging as a pin-up girl/event worker, traveling to college campuses and music festivals to distribute a free fiction book written by an eccentric millionaire—you know, the usual stuff you do in your twenties. It wasn’t until I started working in the fitness industry, first teaching kickboxing and later teaching yoga, that I adopted the common practice of viewing myself through the lens of my work. I found a profound fulfillment in these roles as I discovered that I had a knack for teaching and thus the ability to positively impact people’s lives in a meaningful way.

Even after leaving the wellness industry, this realization stayed with me and led me to consciously seek work that allowed me to help others, which is how I came to find myself in my first ever role as an office worker at my local community college. This, of course, only coming to fruition after moving to Southeast Idaho and realizing that Anna-the-Yoga-Teacher could not make a living here.

While I am very proud of the work that I do in my current role, I have recently found myself consumed by a feeling of deep dissatisfaction. Luckily for me, despite not sitting on my meditation cushion for months on end, my mindfulness practice has stayed with me just enough to know that there is probably something outside of job satisfaction contributing to this feeling.

The spring before I accepted this position, I was preparing to graduate with my BA in philosophy. I was anxiously awaiting to hear back from graduate schools and, for a brief moment, I allowed myself to think that pursuing a PhD in philosophy might actually become a reality for me (a difficult thought to embrace for many first-generation students).

The stream of rejections I received took a serious toll on my self-worth, and I found myself feeling lower than I ever had.

As a returning student, I really thrived while completing my undergraduate degree. In only two academic years, I presented at four conferences, was accepted into a summer institute at a prestigious East Coast institution, took on additional work as an honors student and McNair scholar, became a philosophy tutor for two different courses, and, thanks to a lone A- in Philosophy of Science, ultimately graduated summa cum laude with a 3.99 GPA. I finally felt like I had found my place in the world and could see a real path forward for my life.

Being a philosopher and an academic became a big part of my social identity. And having my academic dreams ripped away from me was devastating in a way I can barely describe. It truly felt like a period of mourning for a lost loved one, except the loved one was a lost version of myself. If I am not a philosopher, am not worthy of pursuing a higher degree, maybe every idea I had of myself over those two years was false. Maybe I am not as smart, capable, or talented as I thought I was. Maybe Anna-the-Philosopher did not really exist.

After all my years of studying and practicing yogic and Buddhist philosophy, I really would have hoped to handle that loss of self more gracefully, more empathetically. I mean, I literally wrote my senior thesis on the concept of no-self and taught practices of non-attachment for years as a yoga teacher. It doesn’t get more ironic than that.

But I suppose that is the difference between theory and practice, isn’t it?

Although I was studying and writing about Buddhist philosophy (and incessantly parroting my spiritual teacher’s catchphrase, “You exist, but not in the way you think you exist,” to my classmates), I was all the while growing increasingly attached to this newfound social identity. And the moment that social identity began to unravel, so, too, did my world.

I loved being Anna-the-Philosopher. And the idea of being Anna-the-Grad-Student, and eventually becoming Anna-the-Professor, gave me a previously unknown hope that was unbearably difficult to let go of. Becoming Anna-the-Office-Worker has, in some ways, felt like becoming Anna-the-Failure, Anna-the-Unextraordinary.

But on my better days, I can still draw on the wisdom of Anna-the-Buddhist. I can see the mystical in the mundane and read an anomalous error code as a message imbued with the wisdom that being one thing does not preclude being another. I can not only reflect on emptiness as a concept, but once again see emptiness in myself and the world around me (a far more comforting thought than it may sound). I can see that Anna-the-Office-Worker is ultimately no more real than any other social identity I have embodied or ever will embody.

And on these days, I can hear another catchphrase of my teacher’s echoing in my mind: “You’re always practicing something.”

The stories we tell ourselves about our lives are the biggest factor in the way we actually experience our lives (no one else has to live with that voice inside our heads). When I come into the office every morning and set about my various routines and rituals, I can surrender to the fluorescent lighting and mindless mundanity of it all, and tell myself it is just another day of being Anna-the-Office-Worker, Anna-the-Unextraordinary. I can practice discontent and apathy and feel even more miserable because of it.

Or, as I arrive at my desk, I can remind myself why I took this job in the first place, and I can perform my daily ritual as though I am setting the space to show up and perform meaningful acts of service.

As I put my food into the office refrigerator, I can think of how that food will nourish this body so I can continue to show up and help others on their educational paths. As I set my coffee and water to the left of my dual monitors, I can think of how these beverages will hydrate and energize me, which will make me kinder to and more present for others. As I clean my glasses, apply my Burt’s Bees, and lather on hand lotion, I can thank these things for keeping me moisturized and clear-eyed, so that I can turn to my computer and see a pop-up message that could be easily dismissed or induce an existential crisis, and instead read that message as a gentle reminder that I exist, but not in the way I think I exist.