Constantly Teetering on the Edge
My dad grew up on a lake in Massachusetts where he learned to sail almost before he learned to swim.
In my youth, he rarely had the time or means to go out on a boat, but he kept stacks of Sail Magazine throughout the house so that he could flip through the pages and dream, staying in touch with that part of himself.
After paying my last college tuition bill, he was finally able to realize his lifelong dream of buying his own sailboat. He found a great little Cape Cod Bullseye daysailer and painted the ship's name on its bow in gold letters: First Step. He lowered it down into his new slip on Lake Sunapee in New Hampshire, and I couldn't wait to go out for a celebratory sail with him. I knew he had done and given so much to make my education as a first-generation college student possible, and I was so glad he did this incredible thing for himself.
I came up from Rhode Island for the weekend and we chatted about the wind speed on the winding drive over to the lake, feeling lucky that the perfect weather would bless our first sail all together. My parents already had the process down to a science—loading up their cooler, cushions, and dry bag and settling into their choreographed routine of untying knots and pushing off from the dock.
Within the first two minutes of our triumphant sail, I realized something that came as a complete and utter surprise to me: I absolutely hated sailing.
The boat tipped in the wind, like all sailboats do. I clutched the sides of the bow and repeated, “Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad.” as though he was somehow missing that we were on the brink of disaster. He laughed at my extreme reaction. "It's completely fine," he assured me.
I knew that this is what sailing was. I knew that (probably) we wouldn't fall over. Yet, as the boat pitched to the right—and pitched us with it—it felt like a real possibility. I braced myself. Continually. I wanted and intended to enjoy it. But I was so on edge that I couldn't possibly relax.
I couldn't fathom how anyone could enjoy sailing when the whole experience of it is teetering on the edge of insecurity.
The thing is: I can swim. The prospect of falling in the lake wasn't the part that had me agitated—it was the constant, icky feeling of teetering on the edge, the sense that the wind could blow us any which way at any moment, the not knowing. Were we there for a serene day on the lake or were we about to plunge into the dark water? I couldn't tell.
Our work is precarious.
You don't need to get yourself to the water to experience the discomfort of uncertainty—many of us feel it in our work, daily.
There's a word that describes the state of insecurity we feel around employment and income: precarity.
My grandfather worked for the telephone company for his whole career. It was a good, solid job that he and his family could count on. He retired with a pension. My generation's experience of work is so different—marked by change and insecurity. We can't count on things like benefits, job security, or retirement.
We're constantly teetering on the edge...
- The edge of lay-offs across your team.
- The edge of your organization suddenly changing its tune from "we're a family" to "you're just a number."
- The edge of wondering whether your talents will be replaced by AI.
- The edge of working under an abusive boss but not being able to muster the energy or confidence to set up your right next step.
- The edge of bringing in enough project income to make rent.
- The edge of feeling so in service of the mission that you drive yourself to the brink of your own health.
- The edge of working under - leadership that conflicts with your own values.
We feel this precarity regularly. We feel its impact in our bodies.
The US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) recognizes precarious work as a key factor in our well-being and health in an article on its website from 2022.
"While there is no standardized definition of precarious work it can be broadly defined as uncertain, unstable and insecure work in which workers, as opposed to businesses or the government, bear the risks associated with work and receive limited social benefits and statutory protections."
Without a standard definition and metrics, we can't fully understand the broader components and effects of precarious work. But a study by the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health, which analyzed data from 2002-2018 identified four key areas of precarity:
Temporariness: your sense of job security, tenure, and your type of employment (full-time, part-time, contract, etc.) and how you earn wages (salary vs. hourly wages).
Disempowerment: your level of decision-making power, agency over your schedule, the quality of the relationship with your employer, and your ability to get support and growth opportunities.
Vulnerability: respect and trust within your work environment, safety of working conditions, discriminatory practices, and your ability to be productive.
Wages: your family's financial status, benefits you receive, and opportunities for you to advance.
It's no surprise that workers with higher levels of precarious work were less productive, more stressed, and reported more days when they felt physically or mentally unwell.
It's also no surprise that precarity was found to be more common among groups who tend to hold less power and have less access to safety nets:
Workers in the age group of 25–34 years (39.4%)
Multi‐racial workers (52.3%)
Black workers (46.0%)
Hispanic workers (44.8%)
This study focused on data collected from before 2018. What do you suppose we would see with numbers from 2020 through today?
What happens if the boat tips over?
On the lake that day with my dad, we talked through a plan: in the unlikely (according to my captain) event that the boat tipped over, what would we do? My job would be to tread water and follow his guidance while he set about putting things back together. I could picture that. If it happened, I could do it. It wasn't that scary.
When I'm coaching a client who is feeling a sense of precarity, I often ask them to imagine what might happen if the boat tips over. It might sound something like this:
Client: "The worst-case scenario would be that I get laid off and don't have a next job lined up."
Me: "Okay, and what would you do then?"
Client: "I'd get my resume together and start reaching out to people for meetings. Try to activate my network. I'd look for jobs and start applying."
Me: "Okay, and what else?"
Client: "I have a little savings that would make it okay for a bit or I suppose I could ask X for support in the meantime / move in with Y while I get back on my feet / take a seasonal job at Z while I'm applying for work."
It can be helpful to think through your worst-case scenario and ask yourself, "What would I do then?"
Making it real—instead of a vague picture in your mind—can take away the power of your catastrophic thinking.
It can also serve to remind you of the ways that you can trust yourself to have your own back.
We're gonna need a bigger boat
Much to our mutual disappointment, I haven't been out on my dad's boat since that day (15 whole years ago).
I'd rather putter around the lake on his friend Bruce's motorboat, tilting my head back into the sun and sipping on a light beer, secure in the knowledge that I'll only enter the water on my own terms.
Better yet, I prefer my feet on land. I'll set up a beach chair on the shady shore with a book on my lap and wave as the wind directs dad and his new first mate, my young daughter, who sits in a red life jacket beside him.
Dad knows how to sail; it's calming for him to work together with the wind to guide the boat in a zigzag out of the bay. Something to do with tacking and coming about, I think.
My daughter has a bigger appetite for thrills. She has a deeper sense of safety and security in this world than I do right now (thank goodness). She likes the tippy-tippy feeling.
Maybe you do, too.
Or maybe you don't.
Maybe the feeling of teetering on the edge is wearing on you. Maybe you, like me, don't enjoy living at the whim of the wind. Maybe the edginess of it all shoots straight through your nervous system.
Unfortunately, we can't turn off the winds. We work within a host of systems that alter the conditions around us.
But there are things that we can do, choices we can make about how we navigate those systems.
That's why I got out of the metaphorical boat. I couldn't sustain myself on that voyage. I had to understand the kinds of thrills and comforts that work for me and intentionally craft a career that helps me feel more solid and secure—and actually enjoy the ride.
The point is, to acknowledge your own unique relationship with precarity. To not feel stuck where you are, teetering on the edge, if that's not working for you. To understand if you'd like to learn to competently sail the boat you're in or find another vessel that suits you better. And to set your own direction rather than drift at the mercy of the wind.
Coaching Questions:
How do you experience precarity in your work?
How might you either embrace being in the boat (like my daughter), learn to navigate the winds (like my dad) or get out of the boat entirely and into an environment that better supports you and your needs?
