Sandcastle Moments and Subway Shirts: A Midlife Sabbatical from Queens to the Gulf

On sabbatical and soul-searching, I reflect on family, identity, and what it means to start over—again—from Louisiana to New York.

I woke up this morning from vivid dreams of libraries, petty theft, and people from my past. My mother was telling me to hurry up and get on with it—classic dream logic.

The Sabbatical Life

I’ve taken on a self-imposed sabbatical. That’s the nicest way I can frame it because no one really wants to hear the words “unemployed” or “jobless.” But that’s where I’m at—and it’s a decision I made. I’m a teacher by trade, though I’ve worn many hats (and I’m not even talking about reincarnation).

I plan to be back in a classroom by September. (And if you’re reading this before then, dear reader, don’t jinx it.)

I like to call this a sandcastle moment: one of those times when the tide comes in and sweeps away the intricate structure you’ve built, and all you can do is start again. As a kid, I loved standing in the wet sand, letting the waves rush over my feet, tugging at the earth beneath me. That was the Gulf of Mexico of my childhood—a brown, brackish sea that never made it onto postcards.

Now, as an adult, I avoid beaches. Sand gets everywhere. But childhood made them magical.

Adult Life and the Flotsam of Responsibility

In adulthood, I’ve lost that innocent lens. Bills pile up. Garbage needs to be taken out. Taxes lurk. Cover letters wait to be written. I distract myself by listening to that haunting song from Donnie Darko—you know, the one with the time-traveling rabbit (cue Mad World by Gary Jules).

Still, I know I’m a good teacher because I’m not afraid of mess. I am, however, sensitive—to place, to atmosphere. I left my most recent job after only nine months (a full gestation), right after February break.

Part of that was my gut talking—something I’ve learned to trust, even if I come across as sweet and naïve. And part of it was concern for my mother, who had undergone two major surgeries in as many months. The last time I’d seen her was when we buried my father.

In a dream, a banshee hissed at me: “What if your mom dies, and the last time you saw her was at your father’s funeral?” So, I booked a flight from LGA to New Orleans and went home.

Back Home in Louisiana

My mom lives far from Bourbon Street, in the Florida Parishes—a sprawling region of estuary, pine forests, and rivers. It’s an outdoorsy paradise, though I’m not especially outdoorsy. She lives on an old dairy farm she renovated herself—with help from my brothers, her brother-in-law, and yes, me. (I have photographic proof if you need it.)

When I arrived, she looked at me with a softness I didn’t know she had. Our relationship has healed over time, though it wasn’t always easy. But that’s another story.

I’m loved by my family, though I’m different from them. I’m openly gay and I left Louisiana. Two strikes. Still, love persists.

My mom’s place is surrounded by brackish water: Lake Pontchartrain on one side, the Tchefuncte River on the other. My older brother lives nearby in his own self-renovated house. He’s an Uber driver. We’ve never really gotten along.

Case in point: the first thing he said when I arrived was, “Take out the garbage and earn your keep.” Passive-aggressive older brother energy at its finest. But he carries the burden of being the older brother, always afraid he won’t measure up. He and my mom are close—thankfully. Without her, I fear he’d crash and burn.

He also visits my aunt, who lives in a memory care facility. We took her out to eat during Mardi Gras season (which aligns with February–March, depending on the year). She’s the adventurous one—used to run her own fashion business for ceramic dolls. When she saw me, she lit up: “Is that Greig? Well, I’ll be!”

My Aunt and I are at the memory care facility where she lives.

We shared a booth at a Chinese restaurant, and I could feel how vulnerable she’d become. She loved my subway map t-shirt and asked me to send her one. I haven’t yet—but I will.

The Odd Comfort of Being in Between

It’s depressing, being loved by your family but feeling helpless anyway. I’ve always been the independent one. And now I realize this isn’t a story of origin—it’s a story of now.

Middle age has a way of freezing your identity in the eyes of those who knew you when. “Greig, remember when you ran away from Kiddie Cottage?” or “Remember when you kicked the kickball over the fence?” I was always on the move. I still am.

Now, back in New York, I’m living off savings and credit cards, searching for work—and holding on to a truth: even if it feels awful, I have to do this on my own. That’s the gift (and burden) of this sabbatical.

Therapy, Family, and the Ghost of Guilt

In therapy, I’ve been unpacking how children of critical parents often enter adulthood unsteady. My dad, an electrician, resented his job and didn’t see us kids as his responsibility. I remember asking for braces as a teenager and feeling guilty for asking.

My mom was loving, but emotionally distant. Lately, though, there’s been a leveling between her, my brothers, and me. Less guilt. Less shame. I’m grateful.

On Leaving Again

When I left Louisiana, Mom and my older brother drove me to the Amtrak station in Slidell. I was raw. I’d be returning to New York changed from how I’d left.

At the station, I panicked—thought I’d forgotten my keys. I tore open my suitcase. Found them in fifteen seconds. Said aloud (because ADHD coping strategies matter): “Here are my keys. I’m putting them in this pocket.”

Even when you’re ready, you’re not ready. But you still go.

My mom and I before I board the Amtrak Crescent (photo taken by my brother).

The train came barreling in—Slidell is the second stop after New Orleans on the Crescent line to New York. Mom took a picture of me boarding. I was wearing my subway shirt.

I waved goodbye.

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