My Memorial Day of Corporate America
My Memorial Day of Corporate America
and the secrets of living off wealthy dogs
Exactly five years ago, San Francisco’s sun smiled down hard on a beautiful Memorial Day, after our summers of smoke and fires. I remember ‘twas noon of that Monday, the 27th of May of 2019.
That was my last moment as an enlisted full-time soldier with a salary, benefits, and the delicious pride of corporate social validation.
I was the shit, man. Senior-Clinical-Data-Consultant-with-medical-background-extrordinaire. Top of my game. 401 k. Bitcoin and Ether. Startup Angel Investor.
It all started with a text.
Ping!
“You don’t have to log in tomorrow, let’s have a virtual meeting instead.”
The next day, my lay off was surgically delivered via Google Meet.
I was in my beautiful apartment in the mission and the sun beamed on our backyard of tulips and neat bushes. I sat down in front of my laptop on the large wooden dining table I hosted countless dinners and parties around. Same place I was sitting in when one of the company partners gave me a call, and showered me with praise for a period where I was experiencing my biggest success.
Three weeks later, I am joining a very different call. I could feel the chill of the virtual room I was logging into.
‘3 others are in the meeting room.’
Gulp.
I could hear the growl of a ferocious creature in that virtual room. It was lurking behind that green button. I could smell the dirt between its toenails.
Join Meeting.
Bleep.
The dark cave lights up with three neon icons. The colorful initials belong to my boss, the Healthcare Practice Lead, the Engagement Manager, and lastly, the head of HR.
All rise!
The engagement prosecutor’s presents the case.
His Honor, the Practice Lead, remained silent.
I did not plead guilty. I presented my case. I defended. I talked about my logic. I attempted to express my emotions in a balanced way. I talked of my commitment to the bullshit that we all engage in.
I was interrupted by his honor.
“A decision has already been made to terminate you, Omar. We do not need to hear this. You will no longer be with us. Best of luck. HR will take it from here.”
Bleep. Bloop.
Two neon icons disappear, and with it five years of my history at the company.
I can now see the shining edges of the growling monster with jagged teeth and salivating wide jaws. The same hands that fed me gourmet salaries, Marriott hotel rooms, fancy dinners, and personal airport pickups.
No more.
I was the meat now. I am the chopped liver, that everyone else needs to live.
I am the butt of the food chain. The jagged teeth descend on my neck like a judge’s hammer.
And so it was.
The HR person read me all my rights. Execution. Her words flowed in stacatto low pitched slow motion. I only heard a few words as my thoughts swirled into a heap of blinding dust. Heavy breeze. Deep heart beats. Racing. Tightness in the belly.
I heard ‘six week severance’. I heard something about my insurance…’Cobra’...COBRA? This is the actual name of the type of insurance one gets to maintain benefits post lay off. COBRA!
I knew there was a fucking monster. It doesn’t matter what I know anymore.I am free to go now. Fuck them and fuck their cobra bullshit insurance. It all felt personal.
But then it lead to the actual personal questions like..
Who am I going to be now?
That was exactly 5 years ago, Today. I continue to ask this question and I have to say, life is pretty challenging outside of America’s jacuzzi of corporate disposable salaries.
Many people like to romanticize leaving corporate jobs and being entrepreneurs, but man this shit is hard! When Uncle Sam’s teat stops giving you the monthly comfort of a paycheck, one needs to get really creative and learn a whole lot about oneself.
It is not easy, and I have no hacks or wisdom. All I can tell you is that since then…
I travelled the world, got married, and started writing seriously. With that came The Gumpcast, and I got covid twice in two different continents. #herdingtheimmunity
I spent all my savings on travel, built it all back up with a clinical data consulting business, and then spent it all again on rent when I returned to SF.
The economy got tight. All my solo consulting contracts dried up.
I went through a divorce. Failed at business partnerships. Lost friends
I went back like a drooling dog to the job applications. Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. Suffered back pain, flirted with pre-diabetes and worked hard on making peace between me, myself and I.
I got certified in Functional Medicine, learned the psychotherapy model Internal Family Systems and started building a holistic health coaching practice.
And writing. Writing. Writing. It’ remains to be the juice that keeps me going. That is why this blog is so precious to me. I live to write. Write to live. It works for me.
Push ups. Planks. Short Walks. Long Hikes. HIIT Exercise. Fasting. Paleo. Keto. Elimination. No diet. No sugar. No meat. No carbs. No food. Water-Only. Biomarkers. Labs. Travel-friendly kettlebell weights. Yoga.
Qi Gong.
I learned to define and measure health in a way that made sense to me.
As the business started to grow, I kept measuring my runway, and freaking the fuck out about how hard it is to build a business in San Francisco while living comfortably.
The financial woes ebbed and flowed, and by the middle of 2023, I had arrived at my greatest fear. I could no longer pay rent without going into debt. I was crumbling under that pressure now, and my runway got narrower, and then…
Poof!
My runway disappeared.
The cushion was no longer there, and my body laid bare on the my cold hardwood floors.
And then I saw myself
I was a hamster locking himself in my apartment, trying to figure out how to pay for his glorious cage.
I am a martyr of my own war. I had to ask myself some harder questions.
What is the purpose of paying rent?
My answer to that was: to have a place that allowed me to keep exercising, meditating, cook good food, and be jolly with my friends in.
However, the financial stress in me was solving for rent, not for my overall health. I was smoking, isolating myself, not enjoying concerts and nice dinners, and working on my rent problem all the time. The hustle was real.
And the more it bore its jagged teeth, the more my health bled.
I did not feel well. So I decided to stop.
To Stop paying rent. To stop pretending to love my life. To stop killing myself trying to be normal. To stop resisting what wants to happen right now.
And the question became, how can I live in a place, without paying rent, so that I can invest my income directly into my own health and health business?
To be honest, it wasn’t really that slick, or an edgy philosophy, or some righteous path towards liberation.
No, it was just because I was becoming broke and anxious. This is not a philosophical tirade against paying rent. I just couldn’t keep up man. It was my reality.
It still was a decision, however. A truly empowering one. (Another decision could have been applying for more full time jobs, or maxing out my credit cards to maintain a lifestyle that no longer served or belonged to me.)
Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change? Did you exchange
A walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
Wish you were here - Pink Floyd
Great, so now where do I go?
When this all dawned upon me, I was sitting in my Diamond Heights apartment, and hosting my friends’ dog. When they came to pick their dog up, I met a friend of theirs that had been using the app: Trusted Housesitters.
Rich people travel, and there are these amazing homes looking for someone to stay in for free and look after their dogs. The downside is moving a lot, the upside is crossing off rent from my list of worries. Sold!
He gave me the answer to my question. One can only recognize the right answer if one has the right question.
And so it was. I sublet my apartment to someone who can afford it. Someone who my old lifestyle belongs to.
I kept only whatever I can carry in my car.
And so it is.
And here I am.
Eight months later, I am still alive. I have survived the great fear and shame gremlin of rent and financial burdens.
I have lived in 12 different places for periods of weeks to a month. Instead of paying rent, I look after dogs and stay in their gorgeous homes.
I work on my writing and my coaching practice. The money I make goes towards me.
I feel healthier than I ever have. Things are improving as I go. On the one hand, I have gotten used to it, on the other hand I am simply no longer chasing abstract ideas.
I sat nine different dogs, went to two 10-day long meditation retreats, travelled to Big Island, visited back home and experienced the gracious hosting of Morgan, Nick Adkins, and Omar Dajani who all opened their homes to me for extended periods to fill in the gaps.
I do not recommend this lifestyle for anyone, but I can say with certainty that it is the best decision that I have done for myself this past year.
The engine runs on cold, lubricated fluid now.
I am no longer the hare in the race. I am the tortoise.
I do not need to run as fast as I can, for as long as I could, all the time.
I can now slow things down for a brief moment and live well off what I saw before as my ‘disposable income’. Nothing disposable of it now.Every dollar that I make for my services, I can invest into a clinic, healthy food, and lifestyle where I can be active.
I know this phase can’t last forever, but also I will take the time I need to do it right.
Suddenly my income is more than enough.
I can afford Trader Joes and Whole Foods again. I can go out to see music again. I can pay off all of my credit card debt again.
I could now also afford my new Gumption Health clinic on 1850 Union Street in San Francisco. If you are local, come visit me for tea, learn about the gumption health program, and chat about collaboration. Book some time, and come over.
And so now I am enough.
I am enough.
Enough.
I hope you believe that you are enough too. Because you really are.
Please remember.
Happy Memorial Day.
Love the story and the arc and the art of it all! <3