But I couldn’t keep treading water solely to meet other people’s expectations, or even my own outdated ones. As a kid, when I fantasized about my future, I saw myself at cool parties in book-stuffed, dimly lit NYC lofts. I would live a glamorously literary life brimming with smart, sharp-tongued friends and paramours. Of course, life rarely works out quite the way we envision, and by 39 I found myself glaringly far removed from that childhood dream life. More than that, I wasn’t even sure I wanted that life anymore. What my gut kept telling me I needed was a shock — a series of new and unrecognizable experiences to jolt me from stagnation and, hopefully, lead me into something more meaningful.

Working at the kitten nursery was even more of a jolt than I’d bargained for. Instead of lolling about in my living room in pajamas until 1 p.m., I was out the door at 5:30 a.m. My schedule was Fridays through Mondays, beginning at 7 a.m. I endured the public humiliation of wearing pastel scrubs on the subway every day. There was a no-cell-phone policy at the nursery, so I’d only check my phone on my lunch break — no emails, no texts, no Instagram, nothing. It was surprisingly terrifying, and more than a little freeing.

And then there was the actual work. Unlike with my writing career, where I'd spend hours on end on my couch, the only time I sat down during my shifts was to feed kittens that couldn’t eat on their own. I spent 85% of my days there on my feet: cleaning cages, weighing cats, preparing food and bottles of formula, and hauling supplies. Each caregiver worked alone to care for his or her section of kittens (anywhere from 30 to 50 felines at a time). I was so physically exhausted at the end of every day that I couldn’t do anything but collapse into the bathtub the moment I walked through my front door. That is, after I’d inhaled all the junk food in sight — the intense physical labor every day meant I was starving all the time.

And then there was my salary. I was obviously making far less than I’d been making in my past job, so I’ve had to dip heavily into my savings to support myself as a single person in Brooklyn. I recently cut back my work at the nursery to two days a week to give me more time to write — after taking a break, turns out I kinda missed it! Kitten season is almost over, though, so my job at the nursery — which is only open for about six months at a stretch — will be ending soon.

I'm planning to ramp up new writing projects, reach out to old contacts, and hopefully find a job that will help me pad my savings account a bit. But I'd consider applying to the kitten nursery again. Though my work there has been incredibly draining on both a physical and emotional level — it’s rough when the kittens don’t make it — it’s also been rewarding. I get paid to stare into the faces of the tiniest, cutest creatures you could ever imagine. And I feel like what I'm doing is making a concrete impact — it’s a great feeling to help wean a kitten from the bottle to wet food, and even better to see them get adopted to a great family when they’re old enough.

I’m still figuring out what my longterm career plans look like, and how much of it will involve working with animals. I can’t imagine returning to a traditional cubicle environment five days a week, and this job has taught me that there’s palpable relief in being forcibly removed from my computer, my phone, and my own head for hours upon hours.

Most importantly, after finding that my career as a writer didn't exactly live up to my childhood dreams, it was pretty amazing to stumble into a "dream job" — even if, just like a dream, it can't last forever.