For the past year and a half, I have been navigating significant professional change. After abruptly leaving my decade-long job as an elementary school principal in August of 2024, I spent the first half of 2025 exploring different districts and thinking that I would go back into a similar position. I had 5 years left until I could retire from the pension system, and I thought that this was the path I was on. Just get another administrative position and ride out the 5 years.
But this was not to be. From the Fall of 2024 to the spring of 2025, I applied and was considered for several positions, but nothing ever panned out. For some/many, it was that I had some sort of taint on me because of the way I had left my previous position, and some for it not being a good fit, and for one in particular, that I misread an interview and bombed it. I was disappointed by all of these experiences, questioning myself, and wondering what was next for me.
During the summer of 2025, it became apparent to me that I had not been listening to my gut and what the universe was telling me. “That’s not it, Necole.” Or as Liz Gilbert put it and as I quoted her in my doctoral dissertation, “NOT THIS,” which is rather funny because it is this very dissertation that fomented my leaving my previous position, and also was the academic culmination of doctoral studies as an educator. I began to understand that my dissertation had been a beginning of a new path, not merely the end of one, which I had either presciently or ironically noted in my study by framing it within the context of the Tarot’s major arcana. The major arcana is considered the “Spiral Path” – a journey from Fool to Universe to Fool to Universe, and so on, connoting that life’s journeys are cyclical and build upon themselves.
It’s like the dissertation work was a practice run for what it would result in. “You think THIS doctoral shit is a journey toward self-knowledge? Aw, you’re such a cute autoethnographic rookie. Buckle up.”
Mid-June of 2025, my husband and I drove our three cats and two dogs to our upstate cabin, and they have not left. Our roots continued to deepen here, and by the end of the summer, we had decided to have a go of it full time. We feel most at home in Sullivan County, NY.
I bought our New Jersey house after my divorce in 2014, a beloved sanctuary for my newly-on-my-own self. We decided to rent it out starting in early 2026, but over the holidays, we have changed our minds and are considering selling it. It’s in a great neighborhood, and we’re in the process of weighing our options. Most relevant in this is that leaving NJ would be a confirmation that my life as a K-12 educator is over, and whereas that’s absolutely wild to me and would have been unthinkable a year ago, it feels very right.
When I sit with it in my body, I know I am meant to be here. That the path that led me to this area in the 1990s as a camp counselor has led me back here. Sullivan County is sacred for me – a place where I began to understand who I was through the power of Girl Scout camp. So, here I am in January 2026, and another spiral moment is taking place.
I graduated college in 1996 with a theatre degree from what is decidedly NOT considered a theatre school. The University of Virginia is a public academic institution that never seems to take an easy path, which in retrospect, is quite a match for me. I loved my time in UVA’s Drama Department, and for the few years following undergrad, I worked on and off as a scenic artist in New York and San Francisco scene shops.
Yet, my path went into a more educational direction, first through the nonprofit sector and ultimately into public school education in New Jersey. 10 years of teaching, 12 years of educational leadership. Then, my dissertation angered some people who decided to make an issue of it. I left through an agreement, took an interim position 6 months later, and in June, found myself unemployed for the first time in my life.
While unemployed, I was asked to teach a section of a graduate class at the university where I received my doctorate. Given that my research sister was also offered a section and we would be working with a dear professor, I accepted. Throughout the Fall 2025 semester, I fell in love with teaching again. My students inspired me and smoothed the edges that my previous workplace had left jagged. These students gave me hope, made me think, and for the first time in a long time, made me feel valued in a professional setting.
Also during this time, I was connecting with organizations upstate. I got involved with SALT, a community of Sullivan County leaders who meet monthly to share ideas, services, and support. It is fitting how I got connected with SALT through Camille. Camille and I once sat down with some other Sullivan County employees to discuss a collaboration between them and Catskills Pride, of which I am a board member. Mid-meeting, we both jumped out of our chairs with the realization that we had met several years prior at a Girl Scout camp reunion weekend. Yes, THAT Girl Scout camp. I had worked there in the 90s, and she had worked there in the aughts.
Camille (henceforth known as “Clover,” her camp name) encouraged me to attend SALT meetings. My sense of community has deepened with SALT, and I am so grateful for the people who inhabit that space. My sense of value and contribution – long masked, muddied, and diminished by working somewhere in which I had to minimize myself to survive (and still didn’t manage to survive) – began to return. I felt connected. I FEEL connected.
And then I met Terra. Always a connoisseur of nonsequiturs, I need to note here that I worked part-time at a tea shop called Terra while I was a teacher. It was owned by three women, and with one of them, I always felt a deep connection. She ultimately closed the store and moved somewhere warmer – both literally and figuratively – but I continue to love the name Terra. So, when the person who emailed me to set up an interview for a part-time administrative coordinator position at Cobalt Studios was named Terra, I took note. But not just because of her name.
I first heard of Cobalt Studios back in 1996, when I was 21 and considering my career options. As a scenic artist, I was great at mixing colors, but not so much at anything else. Cobalt offered a 2-year scenic artistry program that was highly regarded in the scenic world. I considered it, decided it was too much of a risk (I was REALLY risk-averse back then), and moved on with the trajectory that led me to grad school Part 1, a lot of student loan debt, and ultimately to a two-decade career teaching and leading a school building.
So, when several years ago I saw the sign across 17B from our little hamlet up here, I said to Chris, “Holy shit – that’s so wild. I almost applied to their school in my early 20s.” I made it a point to scout out a running route past it, hills be damned. I was always curious about the place, noticing an occasional horse and donkey in the front yard, a snow man with a cute hat, and a long studio that could be seen from the road only in winter while the trees were bare.
In late December, Chris sent me a Facebook link to Cobalt’s job posting for the administrative coordinator. I drafted an email expressing my interest and sharing my brief history as a scenic and what I have been doing since, attached a resume, and clicked Send. I heard back pretty quickly, which was particularly interesting given that it was the holiday season, and we set up an interview for January 1st. It was certainly interesting that they wanted me to come in on New Year’s Day, and Chris took that to be a good sign. I didn’t want to jinx anything, so I didn’t – I just tried to remain curious as to how I got to this place and the connections it was seemingly highlighting.
The morning of the interview, there was a fresh two inches of snow on the ground. It had been snowing and sleeting up here pretty much every couple of days, confirming the Farmer’s Almanac’s assertion that it would be a winter “of wild.” I drove the 3 miles – a shorter commute you could not find in this area – to Cobalt and traipsed through the snow to the door. As I opened it, I deliberately inhaled deeply, knowing I was going to smell a smell that was dear to me. Scenic paint has a distinct smell that cannot be compared to anything to describe it. It is uniquely scenic paint, and it didn’t disappoint.
I walked around the project that was on the studio floor, through the mixing room (the smell at its crescendo), and into the office spaces. I was greeted by a younger woman, whom I learned was Terra. She promptly called me Babette. I told her that I was Necole, not Babette, and she apologized that she had gotten the interviews mixed up. She took me on a quick tour, and when I noted the familiar smell, she said, “Oh, wait! You’re the former scenic!” Her whole demeanor changed, and I assumed it was merely because she didn’t need to explain what scenic painting or scenic artistry was.
After the tour, I met Rachel, the founding owner and scenic charge. We sat down in their break room for the interview. Countless architecture and design books lined the walls floor to ceiling and a cat named Skeeter whom they told me was the loveable studio cat napped on a couch. While Skeeter was not an active participant in my interview, I would like to think that he supervised it.
Terra began the interview by telling me that she was really taken by my resume and email. She shared that she could tell that I was a deeply caring educator, and that she had such a good feeling about me. As she told me this, she teared up and then quickly apologized for getting emotional. I responded that I was so touched by her response and settled into my seat a little more comfortably.
While I was touched by her response, I was also stupefied. All of the professional connections were fascinating enough, but the feeling that she really saw who I am through my writing and responding so sweetly to it was otherworldly. She and Rachel asked me about my work and how I came to apply. I tried to tell them as succinctly as possible, but we all seemed to enjoy the tangents. Rachel knew who Herbert Senn and Helen Pond were – the incredibly talented scenic designers at the Cape Playhouse when I worked there in 1994, legends in the scenic art and design field – and when I mentioned that Edward Gorey came to our dinner nights there in the shop, she asked what he was like. Terra didn’t know who he was, and Rachel kindly chided her, saying, “You should.”
The interview continued well, and they even wanted someone with grant writing experience, which I have, although admittedly it’s a little rusty. I connected it to my research and proposal writing, with which grant writing draws many parallels, and during a moment of confidence, I shared that I am a damn good writer. I saw Terra write a huge “YES” under that question on her interview sheet.
I told them that I am an adjunct professor, but most of the work is remote/online, and they indicated that they could be flexible with notice. Terra then gave me a draft of an employee manual for the position, and I sat down to read it next to Skeeter, who barely moved as I scratched his head. The manual was just as I would have written it, and I made a note to share the format with a dear friend and colleague,who would appreciate its delicate balance of thoroughness and efficiency. Acronyms defined, steps clarified, all referenced materials included in appendices.
On the 5 minute drive home, I reflected on what had just happened.
Cats.
Artistic women who connected and valued connection.
A workplace to which I could walk or run in the warmer months, or even the colder months if I left some layers there.
Paint all over the place – no need to dress up.
A place where I could contribute while also having time for my research and teaching.
One day later, I was offered the job. I immediately accepted. I start tomorrow.
Another spiral begins again. I don’t know what this new job will bring, but I have learned enough in the past year to know that even the most logical next steps can defy logic. I have walked through countless moments of darkness and anger and doubt since August of 2024. I sat in uncertainty for so long – a practice that is so damn hard and scary for me. I did not foresee working at a scenic studio that had been in my headspace since the 1990s, and yet it feels absolutely correct for me right now, following all of these connections “of wild.” Never doubt the ability for you and the universe to reconfigure what is right for you, no matter how illogical it seems.
The Farmer’s Almanac has never been more accurate.
Tall Trees Catch the Breeze 