It’s apt, and purposeful, of this being posted on the autumnal equinox. Autumn is my favorite time of year; a time for death & rebirth, cooler weather emanating in cooler heads, and, of course, the lore of Halloween. The change in season often signals within me a change in my mental outlook. The change this year though is specifically different. It’s publicizing the shedding of an old skin, and the acceptance of what I’ve resisted for so many years. I hope you enjoy.
(TL;DR at the bottom)
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When we visited Portland in July, a brief innate instance of boredom occurred, and my phone was the likely answer. During my web cruise, I stumbled upon an article titled “Writing From Shame”. My attraction to the headline was oddly instantaneous, as though the subject matter had been perspicuous this entire time. Within the article, writer Molly Dektar explains how writing from shame can ‘dismantle your own sense of yourself’, and can be a significant prompt when in search of a subject matter to write about. While the topic sounds easy enough, writing about shame requires you to face yourself and your truths under a microscope, placing them in a gallery for the world to view. Not dissimilar to real life, the topic is often skirted around, or buried quickly beneath other subjects.
Shame already snows a light dusting in the majority of my writings. The melancholy nature from which the words pour onto the page are often formed from the caverns of my mind which are inhabited by ‘gremlins’ who lurk in the darkness. The gremlins, in this case, are more often than not seeds of insecurities about myself and the life I lived. As a respect to myself, by incentivizing these doubts into my writing (often around the outside edges, rather than directly), it’s as though I’ve gained an ability to express myself freely, and taken permission to forgive myself for past thoughts and indiscretions. If the subject matter can be addressed in some regard, then in time the gremlin will be seen as just a tiny nuisance, rather than the gargantuan beast in the cave. In short, it’s purely therapeutic.
When the word ‘shame’ streaks across my periphery, the first notion isn’t an embarrassing moment in public, or a caustic relationship that soured, but rather my own selfish shame regarding my current career transition, and fear of the public lens regarding the inevitable reveal. Matter of fact, specifically, this reveal.
See, for the dear reader who may be new to my writings, for the last decade plus, my life was completely enveloped by brewing. Fermentation was my lifeblood; what would wake me up with fervor, and breathe without thinking. Brewing became the sole constant reliance in my life. It charted unknown paths, leading to grand adventures beyond my wildest expectations. Over those 14 years, brewing had been synchronous with my individualism.
For so long, the passion for brewing was so ingrained into my blood, the notion of doing anything professional besides brewing felt imprudent. Brewing was it; my naivety led me to believe it was my heritage, and would last forever. To me, there was nothing else. For the people who knew of my existence, close or indirectly, I was known as “Cory, the brewer.” In many respects, this distinction is all I’ve ever known.
The story of getting into brewing is easily discussed with elation, rather than talking about the difficult slow departure. After homebrewing in college a couple times, the hobby resonated with me on a deeper level. Brewing enamored me with elements of scientific and artistic processes; my fondness for microbiology was already present, and could be put to practical use, while the creation & tweaking of recipes was a nuanced artform. After numerous batches under my belt, my obsession churned out the thought “Wait, can I do this professionally?” And thus my odyssey began.
People always mentioned in passing they were envious that I found what I loved to do so early in life; I was “lucky”. Looking upon my peers, struggling to figure out their sense of direction, brewing provided purpose, and fulfillment, within its confines. Looking back now, my confidence was directly correlated to the connection within my career. Being a brewer was a ‘cool’ job, and an easy conversation starter for anyone (especially dads). My self-esteem flourished, but it was a facade at many points. Brewing was my personality, a shield to stand behind, worried people would see the real me, and dislike it. In reality, my anxiety wrapped around my own insecurities. Regardless, brewing allowed me to carve out a beautiful chunk of life for myself. Respect was gained for ‘following my dreams’ and taking a non-traditional path. And with those ideologies, came an inherent amount of pride… Which would translate to stubbornness, later on.
In Ukraine, my career was at its peak, and in many regards, I was at the top of my game. Psychologists refer to this period, or this state of mind, as ‘in the zone’ or flow state (the term was originally reserved for athletes). My creativity, my passion, and my skills were excelling like a well oiled machine, and the awards won for my beers were the results of such aggressive, though effortlessly flowing, passion for my craft. Ukraine provided the blank canvas & gold standard I had always sought for myself. I believed the ride would never come to an end. But like all good things in life, they always do.
While the pandemic may have been the catalyst for my brewing existential crisis, my doubts were sown much earlier. The excitement of returning to the US post Ukraine, and helping build a brewery from the ground up outside Austin, Texas, was palpable. The mentality I developed in Ukraine tagged along, now more reassured and confident than ever. If Ukraine was my sandbox for exploration, my dream for this new brewery was for it to be my masterpiece; allowing me the creative freedom one always fights for as a brewer. Everything, down to where the brewery hoses would be placed, was laid out by myself. Until the brewery was officially open, the work was mostly remote, offering me flexibility to consult all over the country. From New York to Phoenix to New Orleans, even back in Portland, consulting tied the knot even closer to my bond with brewing, allowing me to showcase my expertise with ease. My trajectory was trending upwards, and I felt like a wrecking ball, seemingly unstoppable.
Slowly, but swiftly though, the brewery in Austin hit roadblock after roadblock, moving the finish line further & further out. Such is the way in any construction project. The pause in momentum caused a trepidus rift, allowing doubts over my career path to claw their way in. The doubts were brushed off like pesky flies, paying no attention to their inherent whispering.
Once the opening of the brewery had been put on hiatus, moves had to be made to counteract the anxiety built behind the delays. My mind & body had become dependent on the physicality of brewing, and an empty feeling of an unknown future fabricated a quiet desperation. The words “I just need to be brewing, I’ll be fine when I’m brewing again” spun around my mind like an ouroboros, constricting with each passing day. My intoxicated sightlines lead me to believe being behind the wheel of a brewhouse would calm my nerves. It wasn’t soon before long the brewery in Austin was abandoned, and a cross-country drive towards the great state of North Carolina was forged.
Raleigh felt like an oasis, an answer to my prayers. Not only was the focus purely on my favorite niche of brewing, wild & sours, the job came with my own kingdom - the brewery was constructing a barrel aging facility specifically for the position. Once again, ample opportunity was given to stretch my brewing muscle, allowing the flexible independence to build the sour facility in my liking. My nerves began to settle, and for once in a long time, the world felt at peace. At least, for a few months.
A week or so after the grand opening of the brand new facility, the pandemic truly hit. As we all attempted to prognosticate an unsure future, the sour program was put on hold. A few brewery employees were furloughed, and my position transitioned into helping out in whatever capacity the main production facility needed. I was incredibly thankful to have kept my job, but my dreams were dashed. After a couple months on tenterhooks, my new reality recognized this repositioning as permanent.
With the pandemic settling into some ambiguous form, the acceptance of my fate caused the wheel of desperation to revolve once again. My mental state rapidly deteriorated, and my mood was incredibly irritable. For the first time in my life, brewery work elicited a haunting dread. Each day was prescripted, going through the passing motions. My voracious appetite for brewing knowledge had petered off, becoming a formidable opponent, exhausting me. Never before had coming into a brewery made me feel so resentful. My confidence was at an all time low. In hindsight, this behavior should have been my wake up call, but my mind was in a fog. Those thoughts of escape, of changing things up, began to creep back in. My mind craved something different, something new; anything to avoid my current situation.
Placing blame, or frustration, on the pandemic, the current job, or Raleigh itself was too easy. The town was still fresh to me when quarantine began, and my physical social sphere was fairly non-existent besides the coworkers at the brewery. For a long while, I believed changing my location would yield different, yet better, results. This toxic, yet seemingly natural instinct, is sprinkled throughout my whole life; a change in scenery would be the answer to my problems. Maybe, returning to Portland, amongst family & old friends, would certainly make everything better; a physical and mental reset of sorts. After several disappointing interviews for breweries, and even a winery, back in the Portland area, my dream of being ‘home’ immediately died too.
With my propensity for change disarmed, my internal systems began to panic. The feeling of being utterly disoriented, and alone, was a disconfiguring, yet frightening, weight. As if all at once, the preceding dubious elements collapsed in on each other, compiling into one messy ambiguous glob. Every doubt was the water necessary to germinate a full fledged, cliché, pandemic existential crisis. For once in my life, I was completely directionless.
In retrospect, my heart was slowly saying goodbye. A career once loved so dearly, and consumed without inhibition, had now become a source of burn out. My passion for brewing waned, anxiety fraught.
Without the insight of great friends, grounding within the chaos would have never been found. External concerns regarding my tremulous relationship with brewing came to fruition when the Austin brewery kept extending its opening date. Like my own doubts at the time, my frustration with the position was used as assurances, nothing more. With many people in one’s life, they knew better than you know yourself. After my attempt to return to Portland during the pandemic was admonished, my good friend believed this was a sign from the universe; maybe it was finally time to consider brewing as the true stemming issue. My resistance had been a front for so long, placing blame on everything but brewing… At this point, there was honestly nowhere else to search. I found myself in a dead end alleyway, with nowhere to go except to face my problem head on.
My ‘come to jesus’ moment, the eventual recognition of my career as the overarching issue, felt entirely prosaic. Instead of a grand epiphany - feeling like a monumental mental weight being lifted, sunbeams piercing through the clouds illuminating me - the realization was just a shrug from my subconscious having already known. Citing brewing as the issue felt suspiciously too easy. Little foresight was taken to see the relationship formed with my career had become caustic, fashioning a relentless vine precariously wrapped around my identity & self-worth.
With my future in such disarray, I sought the help of a local career couch. She was an immense force in conducting my scattered thoughts, opinions, and personality in a clear direction.
We spoke of transitioning into the wine world, but after some deliberation, we concluded this would only be a temporary bandage on the whole issue. While we never settled on a specific career path (like therapy, career coaches are a guide; the true work is on you), she gave me the tools and wisdom necessary to keep my head above water at the time. “Even if the path is foggy, whatever you do next should only propel you forward.” This was easily one of the best facets of advice she lended.
One of the points my career coach drove home was “I’ll always have brewing.” This true sentiment made leaving Raleigh after two years, and subsequently, the brewing industry, much easier at the time. Other than a few brewery consulting gigs since then, the brewery in Raleigh was the last time my brewing boots were slipped on. It was the end of an era, though my journey was far from over. My mind shifted immediately to “Alright hot shot, so then what’s next?” This question would impatiently circle my brain for the next two years.
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Writing has always had a background session running with everything I’ve ever done. One of my first stories ever written exists somewhere on an Apple IIe computer, written in the 4th grade (probably now miles down in a Portland dump). What the story was about, haven’t the faintest clue, but I do remember Chris Van Allsburg, the author of Jumanji, being a huge influence at the time (his absurd surrealist illustrations, more than anything else).
Since then, my writing has been sprinkled into play as a reprieve amidst the chaos. Living in Ukraine prompted a lot of writing regarding existing in such a different world, the brewing industry there, and as a way to curb homesickness. Some of those writings came to fruition through my post-Ukraine blog “It’s Breakfast For Dinner” - many have never seen the light of day, and probably never will. Other than my own personal journal writings, once the pandemic struck, my energy dedicated to writing ceased.
This was up until January of this year. Framed initially as a way to mentally escape the dreary winter days of Brooklyn, my writing began again. At least, I convinced myself of this for a while. Beneath the surface, the writings you’re reading now are a practice in catharsis. Over the two years of living in NYC, I’ve been let go from two positions, and ghosted from multiple interviews (to the point of paranoia of someone purposely undermining my job hunt). My mom passed, suicide took a brewing industry friend, and health issues have been prolific within the family. A full scale war currently transpires in a country who lies dearly within my heart. On top of it all, I’m transitioning out of a career that’s occupied a third of my life, attempting to find my footing within a world I felt so confident in prior. To say the last couple years have royally sucked would be a complete understatement. Grief, trauma - whatever name you’d like to attach to it - is displayed, and comes, in all forms.
During the time of leaving Raleigh to the present, the frantic search to fill the void of brewing had left me adrift. This lack of direction became a vicious circle cradled against my confidence. Feeling displaced is an incredibly awful feeling; 10/10, would not recommend. Countless rabbit holes have been tumbled down to determine my next course in life. I’ve taken expensive career aptitude tests, attended courses, and read every single article out there on trying to find your ‘next’ career. My obsession with finding my ‘passion’ again became a full time job. Brewing seemed to have been plucked out of thin air, presented gently in front of me as my path in life; this decision has left me paralyzed.
Because of my successful career as a brewer, I had myself convinced success and expertise had to come immediately with whatever field came next. A sole disposition of no restart button, no friendly slack cut for beginners. The mentality became a binary toxic issue; all, or nothing. Attempts at new career paths would undoubtedly hit a frustration wall, translating into quitting before any emotional weight was invested. The error lay within my line of sight. My focus had been purely on the last half of my brewing career; the half where the awards were being brought in, and recognition was given. My tendency was to forget I didn’t start off as a great brewer. While brewing was my passion, helping to fuel the fire predominantly, natural ability or sixth sense wasn’t a predisposition at birth. Taking the time and patience to learn from my myriad of mistakes, onlu then did my understanding of brewing grow, and in response, did my career begin to flourish.
Once again, author John Green indirectly spirited me with some sage advice. In his book, The Anthropocene Reviewed (a collection of essays related to his podcast of the same name), he reminisces on how a late friend told him during a time of disorientation “Pay attention to what you pay attention to.” My world had become so chaotic, my focus was scattered, and my attention was elsewhere. Tuning my attention to the things I love doing was an arduous task amongst my disorganization, but only then did my focus become clear. The answer was staring me straight in the face the whole time. As you can surmise, the thing I love doing, is writing. The signal within the noise.
My therapist and I have discussed my career transition, especially in regards to ‘going public’, at numerous length. Constructing the confidence/courage pathway to reach this point (and, maybe, to reach this section of the post) has been pretty difficult. This is where the true shame comes in; this is part of the story that’s so difficult to tell. My fear isn’t so much about my career path, but how the world, and the people around me, will accept it. Judge it. Use it against me. Say things like “Why are you giving up brewing? You were so good!” or “Makes sense, your beer sucked.” The former hurts more than the latter.
The opposite is also weirdly true.. As a friend would say, the fear of success is an absolute paralyzer. This idea feels like watching a movie run in reverse, attempting to decipher the plot.
My self-worth is so violently wrapped around a career (thanks to brewing), my self-doubt surrounding the opening parade is incredibly frightening. Like brewing, writing is a showcase in vulnerability, albeit to the extreme, which doesn’t help. Your creative works are on display for the world and asking “Well, what do you think?” There’s fear in the unknown, of what the chatter in the backroom is honestly saying. This fear paralyzes me to an utmost extent.
Simultaneously, there’s something so powerful, so invigorating about exhibiting your most vulnerable self; it’s almost a disenchantment of the wall one has created. As if to say “You’ve seen me at my worst, you can’t use this against me.” The one elite discipline brewing has taught me is not allowing other people’s thoughts (Untappd beer reviews) to infiltrate your self-esteem. Your opinion matters most. If the end result was good enough for you, then it was enough. Sowing this discipline amongst my writing, and allowing germination, is the next step.
Even the people closest to me have been wall-offed from knowing my next moves, for fear of displaying failure or fruitless results. This transitional period has been kept so silently underwraps, for fear of not being accepted. Each time a new piece is written here, I attempt to convince myself “This will be the one shown to everybody.” But the timing never feels right.
There’s a quote by famed diarist Anaïs Nin that goes “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Never had this piece resonated with me so profoundly until now; its most recent appearance could have been a sign. This weight of keeping my future plans, and the dissolution of my past career, has occupied too much space for too long; it’s become unbearable. The zone of comfort & safety crafted for myself, by myself, is beginning to crack foundationally, as my more extroverted side begins to push against the restraints.
Only now, in the last few weeks, maybe a month, have I really come around to calling myself a ‘writer’. The term feels out of body, completely alien. Opening up to the people close to me, even strangers, of my plans and aspirations has happened more frequently lately. Through this exchange, the idea becomes comfortable, settling into my mind with ease. Maybe by bringing the thought into the limelight, its honor has to be defended, thus gaining confidence. The term and title has often felt so elusive, and non-applicable to someone like myself who has no definitive artistic ‘talent’… At least, this is the downtrodden dishonest ridicule fed to myself. The words are absolutely unfair, and fictitious.
My love for brewing, and fermentation as a whole, hasn’t ceased to exist, but only taken a back seat, allowing other vocations to take a turn. My professional brewing career will always be a part of me. It’s still a favorite pastime to wax philosophical about the state of the industry with others, and beer itself; more so if we’re talking wine. To say brewing was a profound factor in my growth as a human would be a complete understatement; brewing gave light to the experiences and opportunities one could only dream of having in their lifetime. Acknowledging my career coach, I’ll always have brewing. Only now, in hindsight, the notion was found noticeably clung to me like a leech disguised as a safety blanket. Brewing would always be there for me, but my self-reliance held me back from pursuing another vocation. The time has come to truly say goodbye; something I wish I had done much sooner.
Shedding the skin of the person who was so ubiquitously known as a brewer was, and continues to be, one of the most frustrating struggles between me and my sense of being. My former brewing self feels like a phantom limb; the cliché apparition you see in the mirror behind you, but disappears the minute you turn around. When people ask about who I am, my career as a brewer (and subsequent travel) excites them the most - and rightly so, it’s a hell of a story. Maybe my brewing story will be told to the fullest extent, someday. For right now, it’s time for a new story.
Everything, given time.
Thank you,
Cory
TL;DR:
- I’m not brewing anymore
- I’m now writing
PS: While compiling/writing this post, I enjoyed the companionship of the band DJ Sabrina The Teenage DJ (more specifically, their album Charmed), this wild emoji combiner perfect for every situation, and the term ‘kairos’ (The right time for taking an action; a decisive moment.)