When I got the offer letter for my new job, the panic started to set in. As excited as I was for the change of pace and pay bump, I started thinking about being the new kid in a new office again.

I had been casually applying to jobs for a year, but after there was talk of my reporting structure changing, I started applying like I’d be fired tomorrow. Through the month of July, I had two interviews a week, reviewing online articles from Forbes and overthinking whether a blazer was too formal for a Zoom call. Surprisingly, it was only three and a half weeks before I got an offer letter for a data associate job.

I’d only worked one job out of college, so this was the first time my two-week notice meant anything significant. I was leaving my work bestie, my lunch group, and the ex-CEO playing the saxophone at the Christmas party every year.

Adapting social environments has always taken me time. My overthinking and social anxiety kept me paralyzed, worrying whether I was saying exactly the right things then saying almost nothing. I felt as if I had to prove my worthiness in thoughtful questions and witty but appropriate quips. The ladies at my first job were endlessly welcoming, but I could only stutter out one-sentence responses. It took a year until I could speak with my full voice instead of its mousy whisper.

I gave my two-week notice to my manager, who told my director. Once HR gave the all clear, I sent out word to my lunch group and my DEI subcommittee. I received some kind goodbyes from the expected parties, and I thought that would be the end of it.

But HR sent out my departure announcement a week before my last day, and I received a few more goodbyes. The art director said she was going to miss talking to me about BTS, and the editorial director said that my leaving was a loss to the division. People who I’d thought had never given me a second thought were thanking me for conversations and companionship I didn’t know mattered to them.

My mom says that I’m usually better liked than I give myself credit for, but when you grow up awkward (and remain awkward into your early twenties), it can be hard to see that you matter to your community. I was focused on what made me different, looking for gaps I could close or commonalities I could capitalize on. Ironically, I was so focused on becoming indispensable that I wouldn’t see that I was wanted. It was the perfect send off. It made me feel worth knowing.

On my first day at the new job, I made pleasant small talk with my new coworkers, and I made mental notes about who I could be friends with. I found someone who loved to talk about books, and someone else who was in two DnD campaigns and a gospel choir. I found out that my boss loves to talk about her new puppy, and we’ve been talking about my crochet and her quilting projects.

While it may not feel like home yet, I have learned what the office fridge etiquette is, and I know most people’s names. It may take some time (as all good things do), but I know my existence has value. I will find my people in time, and I’ll feel home again.

Tiffany Kajiwara

Tiffany Kajiwara graduated from Calvin in 2022 with majors in literature and writing. Now, she continues to live in Grand Rapids and works at Baker Academic Publishing as a marketing assistant. In her free time, she enjoys crocheting, thrifting, and psychoanalyzing cartoon characters.