“And so I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Actually, make that ‘I run through the valley of the shadow of death’ -- in order to get OUT of the valley of the shadow of death more quickly, you see.” --Woody Allen

I’ve discovered that I’m the different one. I’ve always suspected it. In fact, I guess I’ve always known it, but I’m finally beginning to accept it.

I’ve always thought differently than the people around me. Perhaps I’m a little more liberal than most, however you want to describe it. I grew up differently than the rest as well. I lost dad at five, meaning the majority of my childhood was spent with only my mom as a parent. My siblings had a chance to develop a relationship with him. Be it as a human being, hero, role model or antagonist.

At five, he was still larger than life. More a legend than man. It was he who hung the moon. It was he who was a cowboy solider, raced Tarzan in swimming, and played professional ice hockey (despite his inability to ice skate . . . . luckily, they allowed him to use roller skates).

I’m the only one in my family who has a chronic disease, and had to face all the accompanying difficulties. I hated growing up diabetic. It labeled me as different from the rest of the kids. It meant I couldn’t chow down at Denny’s at 2 a.m. with everyone else. It means if I wasn’t careful I could pass out on the floor . . . or much worse. It's hard for someone without that sort of cross to bear to understand how difficult it was.

I guess I just have a different view of the world than most people I know. A world that was ruled by a woman, rather than a man. A woman who sacrificed everything for me, for my health, safety and happiness. What did that mean? It meant that my widowed mother worked from her home in order to provide for my siblings and me. Sacrifices were made, but she rarely made us feel that way. We never lacked in anything. Sure, instead of an Izod, I had a shirt with a dragon on it but, hell, it was close enough.

My mother was someone who was able to provide for her family through working at home (Social Security helped as well). She was a woman who was also available to be a room mother, soccer mom, attend every play, assembly, concert, game, practice or any other event in which I participated. She was always there for me. When I was sick, she was minutes away. When I was injured, she was minutes away. When I made a stupid choice, she was minutes away.

Mom sacrificed everything for what she felt was the best life for her family. After I was in junior high or high school, she could have scrapped the stay at home thing and gone on to work elsewhere. She didn’t have to take care of her grandchildren and neighborhood kids. But she did. For me. For my brothers and sisters who needed daycare and neighborhood kids who needed a loving place to go after school.

Everyday I’m glad she was there. I was able to know my mom in ways that most people could never imagine. She knew my friends. Approved of some, disapproved of others. She was there when I needed help and she held back when she knew I had to learn the lesson for myself. But, when I came back hurt and upset, she was there to comfort me.

She was my role model growing up. And I doubt anyone would ever say she put her family in jeopardy because she didn’t become a secretary. I doubt anyone would ever call her a failure. The life she provided for me was the life I desired for my children. It is the life I still desire and the one I am seeking.

I’m at a crossroads. I have the chance to work for myself, at home. I have the chance to provide an environment for my children that is similar to the one my mother provided.

I’ve stated before that I’m not a career person. This is true, but I think that it may be misunderstood. It made me sound as though I am lazy or uninterested in work. This is untrue, as my previous employers would be more than willing to attest to. Sure, I write my journal entries at lunch, but that’s in lieu to sitting in a cafeteria having conversation. My lunch is my time to reflect.

So what do I mean that I am not a career person? Well, my career development provides me with no sense of pride. No sense of accomplishment. It is empty to me. The fact that by the age of 28, thanks to some very keen decisions, I’ve made it to a point that would propel me ever upwards in the corporate ladder offers me no happiness. I’ve increased my salary by 50% in nearly three years. That also means little to me.

Yet, there is a perception in the world that, because I am a man, I must be the breadwinner. I must be the one who makes the household run on greenbacks. The perception is that the only way I can provide for my children is to work 8-5 in an office, with a copy machine, meetings and supervisors. The world tells me that I must deeply desire to be a manager (been there), supervisor (which I’ve been), a Vice President or some other business related title that looks good on a business card, but provides me with little solace.

Most people I know don’t even understand what it is I’ve been doing since college. They have no idea what sort of experiences I’ve built, nor do they understand my industry. They don’t understand the reason why I’ve left one company for another and where those past decisions place me today. (The answer is very well. In my seeking to go back to my former employer a friend of mine said he’d be happy to have me on his team, though he fears I’d make him look bad.) Do not undermine the accomplishments I’ve made in the past few years because you don’t understand them.

Don’t use my age, or the perception of how I was at 19 or 22 as the litmus test for how I make decisions or how I set goals for myself. Just because the way I approach life is different than Ward Cleaver approached life doesn’t mean I’m making a mistake. It only means that it is something that someone without the desires and goals I have would be unable to achieve.

I come home every day unhappy. I feel like I’m wasting my life, doing things that are expected of me to feed my kids. My wife reminds me that she’s doing a fine job providing money to feed the kids. Whatever I make past a certain point is used to pay debts and save for a house.

So, there is my dilemma. I either have to be the traditional dad who sacrifices what’s in his heart, what was his dream in order to satisfy some sort of societal, cookie-cutter idea on what life is supposed to be, or risk the judgement of those who subscribe to that theory.

So that brings me to my decision to leave my job and become a full-time freelancer. A decision that my wife is behind 100% (probably even more excited about the possibilities than I am). I already have job offers at good rates. In fact, I have the chance to build quite a good list of contacts. Why? Because I’ve always been honest and never burned bridges.

My dream in life is to be the writer who sits in his home office and makes the kids milk and cookies when they get home. I start dinner and my wife comes home from work. That’s my dream. My dream is not to be selling myself short by trying to obtain some sort of career that is expected of me.

I cannot obtain my dream by sitting in an office doing unrelated work. I need to get out of the office and make sacrifices in life in order to seek the work I want to do. I have to be aggressive and irritating in order to get magazine editors to notice me.

And they will. Don’t count me out. I will realize my dream. It’s why I went to college and it’s what I feel I should be. It will take ten times the work and dedication than any job I ever held and any company will require.

If that doesn’t fit with your plan in life then . . . well . . . don’t quit your job to become a freelancer. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

But me, I’ll be providing the life for my family that my own mother provided for me. I’ll be following my dreams; something few can say they’ve ever had the guts to do. And you know what? It’ll make me feel good.