May I Please Be Excused From Late Stage Capitalism?

a new manifesto for this newsletter

Twilight at base camp (12,300 feet up!) on the volcano Acatenango, Guatemala.

Friends: Today is the last day of my day job. I’m quitting to write full-time. For the last four years, I have been a policy advisor in the office of the U.S. Secretary of Defense. I am leaving for a hundred reasons; there were so many red lines crossed, and while there was no single lightbulb moment, there was a breaking point. 

Let me tell you how I got to it, and what it all means for this publication.

Somewhere deep in a closet in the upstairs of my mother’s house sits my first book. A white volume with a hard cover and thin spine, this elite work of fiction was written and illustrated entirely by yours truly, in second grade. The front cover reads Mystery of the Martian Ship in my 8-year-old handwriting, surrounded by wonky flying saucers sketched in thick colored marker. The plot had something to do with Angelica and Spike from Rugrats going to space and meeting unfriendly aliens, an adventure that ends on page 50 with “TO BE CONTINUED.”

Whenever I think about the little girl who authored that book, I marvel at the fact that she could have grown up to believe she was anything but a writer. 

Of course, there were reasons for this: none of the adults she knew were writers, and she got the impression early on that writers were unserious. Writers struggled. Writers were other people. Bohemians, probably. This was early 2000s Silicon Valley, after all. And long before she had ever heard the words capitalism or household income or tech stocks, she understood an implicit truth: that her society had winners and losers. To be a winner, you needed lots of money or lots of power, and preferably both. And writers, she was told, had neither. 

Winners didn’t make up stories about Rugrats in space, and she desperately, desperately wanted to be a winner.

So the book found its home on a dark, dusty shelf, next to participation medals and plastic bead necklaces and other forgotten, useless things. 

Would it surprise you if I told you that 20 years later, that same girl, who had so loved writing stories of adventure, would be reluctant to move overseas and have her own? When I look back now, I’m surprised at my own hesitation. But here’s the thing: after years of trying, I had finally found a way to be a winner that didn’t feel awful, and I knew moving abroad would undo it all. 

I had been lost in my early twenties, trying a series of jobs I saw as tickets to the winner’s circle, and found that each left me empty: fashion journalism (glamorous but insipid), corporate law (too tedious, lacked a sense of purpose and relevance), a D.C. think tank (full of so much hot air it could have floated into the stratosphere). I eventually went back to school for international security. I figured I would study wars to find out how to avoid them, and then I would become an apolitical civil servant, the stuff of my West Wing daydreams (nevermind that the staffers in The West Wing were very much political). It was a way to gain power and prestige—to be a winner, in a very Washington, D.C. sort of way—while simultaneously appearing altruistic and selfless. What could be better than having clout and influence all while being lauded for it? 

So I got my masters, then promptly bagged a highfalutin job I’d been told was ungettable, one so many of my classmates coveted: I became a policy advisor on outer space issues in the Office of the Secretary of Defense. (Does that sound like the woman who writes this newsletter to you? Yeah, no. I don’t think so, either.)

I strutted around the Pentagon and philosophized about strategy with colonels in windowless conference rooms. The subject matter was thought-provoking and I felt useful. But much more importantly, I had become one of the elite, and by virtue of my role, my opinion mattered. I didn’t have to ask people to give me a seat at the dark wooden tables that furnished all of Washington, or to listen to me, or to take me seriously—a rare treat for a 29-year-old woman. I still harbored dreams of writing, but that would have to come later, once I’d established myself and had something to say.

But when the love of my life told me, starry-eyed, that he’d been offered his dream job in Cairo, and that if he didn’t take it he’d regret it forever, what could I say but yes? I wanted him to be happy even more than I wanted to be a winner, and if nothing else, I’d live the kind of adventure I wished to one day write about.

Off we went. My office offered to keep me on through telework, but signing the paperwork would take an indefinite amount of time, and meanwhile, I was on leave and adrift. Not a single person in Cairo bothered to ask what I did, and with my fancy job title stripped away, I didn’t know who the hell I was—I had long since hid my real self in a box because that was what winning demanded of me. Now that box was all I had left, and I had to sort through it to remind myself what it held: the Sam who preferred pajamas to business casual, the Sam who knit sweaters and did puzzles rather than keeping up with the news. The Sam who wanted to write stories that came from her soul instead of succinct emails that came from her brain. 

With all the time in the world on my hands, it became clear how I wanted—no, needed—to spend my days. I started this newsletter about 6 months into my extended leave, and writing lit me up from within. I wasn’t making any money, I didn’t have an audience, and I didn’t know where I was going with it, but I didn’t care. My only regret was that I hadn’t done it sooner. It was the only job I’d ever had that I didn’t have to convince myself to do.

Then, a mixed blessing came: I got my job back. My telework agreement was signed and delivered. Returning to work made me feel like I was someone again—it’s just that that someone wasn’t me. I was surrounded by colleagues who were so talented, so dedicated to public service, so full of purpose, but I knew in my heart of hearts that I was only pretending to be like them; my writer self would not go back in her box. I just wasn’t ready to admit it yet, and I hobbled along for another two years because I couldn’t imagine quitting. That would be risky and frivolous, and anyway, how could I relinquish the position I’d fought so hard for? I wanted to contribute financially to my marriage, to be able to stand on my own two feet should the worst happen. 

It pains me to admit this, but I’d been so afraid of becoming a stereotype, a kept woman, a “trailing spouse,” that I made myself physically ill. The mere act of opening my work laptop made me tired and queasy. I would knit to stay awake on conference calls while I told people things like “I don’t think the Secretary would support that,” or “we look forward to providing coordination on that memo.” I was achy all the time, and I came unglued at the most inconsequential things—a passive-aggressive email, an offhand comment. My work was slowly robbing me of my humanity. But I was no quitter. Breathe, baby girl, I’d say to myself, just breathe and you’ll be fine.

It worked until it didn’t.

A couple months ago, my mother and I looked across the Bosphorus from the gardens of Istanbul’s Topkapi Palace. Seagulls flitted between Europe and Asia over water that sparkled like a Montana sapphire. It was the sort of day that should lift the soul. So why was mine so heavy? I had felt so free the previous few days, but with each moment that passed, the flight home drew closer—and home meant work, my creative prison. 

My breath was an anxious staccato as we wandered steep streets looking for a place to have a drink. At what felt like the only open café for miles, I sank into a couch and finally, I unraveled, like a spool of yarn being held by a thread. I told my mother how I dreaded going home and returning to my job, how all I wanted to do all day was write and paint and make things, how I wasn’t taking care of myself. How I feared this path only led to more unhappiness and how I had forgotten what I was doing it for, other than the security of a paycheck. How I had completely lost the plot. 

“I can’t stand to see you like this,” she said, her shoulders slumped, her eyes pleading.

It was the point of no return. I could break my own heart, but not my mother’s. If she wanted only my happiness—if she didn’t care whether I came out on top in some fucked-up rat race—wasn’t I allowed to want happiness for myself? 

Within less than a week, my mind was made up. I would never again put myself in a box. And so here we are: I quit my job in favor of allowing myself to create, to heal, to grow in the direction I want.

That’s not to say all my internal struggles are resolved. I’m still working on unlearning the idea that security, happiness, and success mean more—acquiring more stuff, getting a promotion, seeing bigger numbers in my bank account—and trying to internalize the truth that what I already have is more than enough. Because it is. That is thanks to capitalism rather than in spite of it; I have benefited from our spoils system, and I now have enough financial security to feel gross making money just for the sake of having more. 

So, I’m bowing out. I am excusing myself from late stage capitalism. My new theory of winning is striving to be a decent person who lives by her values—someone who isn’t a net negative, who puts a modicum of goodness into the world by chasing what she wants and making room for others to do the same. 

If that makes me a loser, so be it. I’m ready.

All that said, please allow me to re-introduce myself, and to tell you what my newfound creative freedom means for Caravanserai.

I’m an American living in Amman, Jordan as the spouse of a diplomat. I’m an outsider here: not Jordanian, not Arab, not Muslim. I’m an expert in security and foreign policy, which helps me craft interesting stories that consider the broader geopolitical context. I’m a person who takes risks, who travels for joy and inspiration. I’m also very frank about my own privilege—i.e., my diplomatic status gives me a somewhat coddled existence, I can afford to quit my job with no plan—and I constantly attempt to examine that privilege and how it colors my experiences and my views.

I believe the personal is political, and that travel is just life distilled into its most potent form. I believe most hatred is derived from a rejection of complexity or a lack of understanding, and that willful ignorance breeds cynicism. I believe the more we know about the world around us, the kinder, saner, more compassionate people we become—that sunlight truly is the best disinfectant.

Caravanserai is a place where readers can gather for cultural commentary, personal stories, and travel tales that weave those beliefs and perspectives throughout. My goal is to craft sharp, incisive, generous writing that will guide you deeper into hope and belief in our shared humanity through nuanced awareness of the world around you. Basically, if Anthony Bourdain and Joanna Goddard had a baby and that baby grew up to write a newsletter, it would be Caravanserai.

Going forward, free subscribers can still expect the direct, expressive, and passionate voice you’ve come to know, with a slight re-orienting toward writing that explores the complex beauty of life in Jordan and the effects of culture and politics on our lives and travels. These are the sorts of pieces you can look forward to:

• Commentary that blends the cultural, political, and personal—stay tuned for an essay on how I choose to dress in a religiously conservative society, what I’ve observed about the clothing choices of women that belong to my host culture, and how those choices shape our interactions; 

• Nuanced thinking about responsible approaches to travel and tourism—for example, next week, I’ll be talking about how and why you should decolonize your travel mindset

• Interviews with fellow expats, immigrants, and ramblers, like Gillian Longworth McGuire and M. E. Rothwell.

Paid subscribers will get access to a community for soulful, life-affirming conversations held through the lens of travel, exploration, and discovery. This is for anyone who is seeking—or, perhaps, has found themself thrust into—a life that pushes the boundaries of their comfort zone; for anyone who feels like home is everywhere and nowhere; and for anyone who aspires to live more adventurously. You can expect one paid post per week, including: 

• Monthly inspiration for living a net-positive life. These are mini-guides and musings for all you fellow seekers, wanderlust junkies, and soulful adventurers who want to leave this world a little better. First one: traveling without a map—stories of what we find when we ditch our devices.

• The Caravaner’s Companion travel guides you’ve come to love (a guide to Mexico City is coming your way in September!)

• Lyrical, personal explorations of my life as an outsider in the Middle East, a diplomatic spouse, and an avid traveler

If that sounds interesting to you, please upgrade here to follow along. Next week, paid subscribers will get an essay about who gets to take sabbaticals, and why we should all have the right to follow our bliss.

See you for our next adventure,
Sam xx

Sunset over Yaxha, Guatemala.