Gwen shrugs diplomatically. “We still have forty-five minutes until lunch. Why don’t you start by picking one hard thing and we’ll go from there.”
Just one thing?
“Showing up early. That’s one thing. But also staying late is almost as hard.”
She nods. “Why would you say that showing up to work at an early hour is hard for you?”
Sadie snorts like this is a stupid question.
Okay, maybe I could learn to like Sadie.
“It’s really hard for me to wake up early and feel like I’m strong enough to face the world.”
A few heads around the room nod.
“One of the goals of our career counseling staff is to help you identify the work schedule and work environment that best suits you,” Gwen tells me. “You’ll get to that in the next two weeks, Hattie.”
I blink at her. “What if my ideal work environment and schedule is ten to two in my pajamas?”
“Then a part-time remote job it is.”
It takes me a minute to realize she’s not joking. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“I’m very serious.” Gwen’s smile is mild and professional. She’s not joking.
“But—that—that counts? If I just worked part-time from home? That counts as… as… being successful?” I scan the faces of the other residents. Nobody looks shocked. It’s just me.
Gwen doesn’t take offense to my challenge. She stays unruffled and even. “I’m not saying ultimately that kind of job is right for you. I haven’t seen your assessment results, but even given the short amount of time you’ve sat in our group today, you seem to have a lot of energy. I’m not sure you’d be satisfied with only four-hour shifts in your chosen field.”
My chosen field.
It sounds so… professional.
“Not all of our clients leave here and head to a full-time job.” Gwen gives a little shrug like this is unimportant. “But I’d say, on average, most of them work around thirty hours a week once they’ve settled into their positions and use the strategies they’ve learned here to help them better manage their physical, social, and professional needs.”
Thirty hours? I have to work to keep my mouth from falling open. I can’t even imagine.
“They’ve got to be so exhausted,” I say, sounding worn out just at the thought.
Her smile is kind, measured. “We keep in touch with every alum of Summit House with check-ins six months, twelve months, eighteen months, and three years after they leave.” She gives a little tilt of her head. “Most of them report being satisfied with the balance they’ve found in their lives. Sure, there are always periods of enhanced stress and demands. Life is like that. People enter and leave relationships and jobs. They have children. They suffer losses and experience life stress, but their satisfaction is consistently higher than before they entered the program.”
I scan the five other faces in the circle. Either they’ve heard all of this before or they’re not paying attention. No one looks surprised or skeptical.
But I’m a healthy amount of both. And maybe this shows on my face.
“Charlie, why don’t you tell Hattie about the internship you’ve just started?”
Charlie nods and pushes his glasses up his nose. “This week, I started training at a Mexican bakery around the corner.” He ducks his head, pushes up his glasses again, but this time the gesture looks like an attempt to hide the wink of a smile. “It’s just a five-minute walk. I get there at 4:30 in the morning, an hour before they open, and I stay until 8:30, so I can get back here for our morning sessions.”
I gawk. “You get to work at 4:30? When are you waking up?” This sounds like my worst nightmare.
Charlie’s smile stretches. “I can make it there by 4:30 if I get up at 4:00. Carrie helped me plan my evening and morning routines. I lay out my clothes the night before. Everything. Even my socks. I take a shower before bed, and I try to get to sleep by 9:00.” He glances around the room and smirks. “That did not happen Sunday night. I was too nervous. But I still shot out of bed when my alarm went off.”
“Wh-what’s it like? At the bakery?” Jordan asks, his voice timid.
Charlie beams. “Nothing in the world smells better than Juanita’s Bakery.”
Smiles fill our little circle. Even mine.
