A Letter to Myself the Night Before a New Job

To me, at ten-forty tonight,

I know you are not asleep. The white shirt has been ironed twice and hangs from the wardrobe door, sleeves perfectly straight, and you still walk past it to look once more. The canvas bag sits ready on the chair, with a pen, a small notebook and your parking card inside. The ceiling fan turns slowly. Out in the alley someone's motorbike comes home late, then a metal gate slides shut.

I am writing because I know what your head is doing. It is rehearsing tomorrow. The elevator doors open, a stranger looks up and asks "are you the new one?", and you try answering three different ways. Then it carries on to the third day, the tenth day: everyone else knows more than you, and nine years as an accountant turn out to be good for exactly one drawer at the old place.

I am not going to tell you this is small. On the first day at a new place everyone feels a little lost. For you, that feeling comes with a fear of its own: you chose to leave somewhere where you knew every drawer.

So I will only sit down beside you for a while, on the edge of the bed, and tell tonight back to you the way I wish someone had told it to me.

Earlier this evening Mom texted: "Remember to eat breakfast tomorrow, sweetheart." You sent a heart, then held your phone for ten more minutes and typed nothing else. I know why. You were afraid that if you wrote too much, she would know you were nervous. But she already knows. She sent that message precisely because she knows.

There is a conversation you have replayed all evening, and I am copying it here so you can see it:

— What if I can't keep up?

— You asked that exact thing when you first joined the old place.

— Yes. And then?

— Then three months later you knew which drawer stuck, and which mornings the printer ran out of ink.

I am not saying the new place will go the same way. I am only reminding you that you have lived through a first day before, and that first day has passed.

There are a few things you have told no one, so I will say them for you. You are afraid of being compared with the person who sat in this seat before you. You are afraid the new coworkers will notice you moving a beat slower on the software they use. And you miss the old place a little, the desk near the window, the iced tea Lụa made every afternoon, the familiar "hey you". You have not said so, because saying it sounds like regret, and you do not regret anything.

Missing an old place does not mean you chose wrong. Both can live inside one person.

I want to apologise for one thing. These past weeks I have talked to you in an unkind voice: "nine years and you're still scared", "other people were different after six months". It helped nothing, it only made tonight longer. I forgive you for thinking that way, and I ask you to forgive me for saying it.

I also want to say thank you. Thank you for signing that offer letter, on an afternoon when you were so nervous you dropped your pen. Thank you to Lụa and the old team, who taught you things you will carry with you, even when you cannot remember when you learned them.

I will not promise tomorrow goes smoothly. I do not know. There might be a moment you forget someone's name, or a question you cannot answer right away. I will only promise a few small things, the kind I can keep.

I promise tomorrow you will eat breakfast, even if it is only half a baguette. I promise that if you forget someone's name, you will ask again, kindly, the way you used to with new people at the old place. I promise that if you feel a lump in your chest in the middle of the day, you may step out to wash your hands in cool water, or go downstairs for a cup of water. And I promise tomorrow evening you do not have to judge the whole day. Just tell me one small thing you noticed.

I wish you can lie down tonight. If you cannot sleep yet, that is all right too, just lie there listening to the fan turn. Tomorrow I will be coming with you.

Me, thirty-four years old, sitting on the edge of the bed at ten-forty at night.

If you are in a night-before like this one, try writing a letter of your own, even a short one. I like the idea of talking to yourself like a best friend because it has a voice that does not grade you. And if you are the one who will meet a new coworker this week, there is a letter to the new colleague written for the other side of the elevator door.

When to seek professional support

This article is a letter to myself before a big change. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising that writing a letter will end your worry.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• The worry is still as heavy as the first night after several weeks, even though the new job has found its rhythm
• You cannot sleep or eat for many days in a row, or you constantly feel you are about to break
• A racing heart, trouble breathing or tightness in your chest shows up for the first time or keeps coming back: please see a doctor first to rule out physical causes, and do not assume it is just worry
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Seeing a professional is a perfectly ordinary thing, like asking someone who has been there before you step into an unfamiliar place. You do not have to wait until you are exhausted to ask.