A Week in My Life: Balancing Corporate Pressure & Poetic Flow
how i lean into literature & poetry during my day job's chaotic seasons
There’s a quiet power in returning to the things that make you feel whole when you’re caught in a whirl of chaos.
In this post, I share a glimpse into my life as a tech contract analyst by day and a writer by night. Come along with me as I (try) to pour into myself on a daily basis, celebrate my one-year book anniversary, brunch with a fellow poet in New York City, and (try) to maintain an online writing presence during a high-pressure (soul-sucking) work week.
Disclaimer: I’m grateful to be employed, and I’m privileged in that my only responsibility at this point in my life is myself. Shoutout to the mamas, papas, and caregivers out there who are working full-time, taking care of loved ones and little ones, and chasing their dreams.
Sunday, September 15th
I wake early and drive down to the Atlantic Highlands, to the little strip of land between the bay and the sea called Sandy Hook. My partner is training for a half-marathon, so he takes off on the trail while I make myself at home by the rocky ocean-front.
I open my journal, sit cross-legged on a blue-and-white towel, and close my eyes. I breathe in the sharp, salty air, listen to the waves crash against the jagged rocks and smooth, brown sand.
There is nothing, and will never be anything, like sitting by the ocean as the sun stretches and makes her way across the sky.
I journal and then begin reading Crown of Midnight as gulls fight for a shattered crab by the breaking sea. The sun leaves my face pink, flushed, as though I’ve been kissed. I get through the first four chapters, to page 34 of 420 pages.
Later, my partner and I have pancakes, eggs, and coffee at our Sunday spot. The day opens up before us, and we approach it leisurely. I clean out my closets, make bags for the thrift store and donations. I Facetime with my childhood best friends, and we catch up — we speak of upcoming weddings, discuss bad dates and how the plague still lingers in the shadows, making us fall ill when we least expect it.
After the call, the Sunday scaries start screeching. I read two more chapters of my book, ending on page 75 of 420, and fall asleep thinking about fantastical magic kingdoms.
Monday, September 16th
After a soft morning of sunrise skies, coffee and a few chapters of my book, I’m back in corporate America’s jackals. The dreaded quarter end is approaching.
After sending off countless emails to sales representatives and our finance teams, I take my lunch break to work on my writing. I reread my draft It’s been a year since I published my poetry collection post, and prep its corresponding IG post I’ll be sharing on the one year anniversary of my collection, which is Thursday, September 19th.
I make colorful designs on Canva for two poems and prep their draft Instagram posts. I’ve been slacking on Instagram (resenting it, if I’m being honest) and these designs have been my attempt to make it fun again.
I finally eat while I start a new AI project at work, expediting as much as possible at leadership’s request. When the work day winds down around 6:30pm, I finally come up for air.
In the evening, I go through my writing-specific gmail account. An email confirms shipment from Tiny Spoon, announcing my copy of their Issue 12 Celestial Eclipse (where two of my poems are being printed) is on its way. The issue’s artwork, in addition to everyone’s writing, is gorgeous. I’m grateful to be a part of it.
This news thrums through my veins and I find myself beaming, dimming the work day’s stress.
Tuesday, September 17th
The morning work hours drag like wet sand beneath my feet. I crave tea and silence, but instead, I’m (once again) wrapped in the endless noise of incoming emails and the haunting ring of Slack huddles.
The hours feel long, stretched thin like a too-tight rubber band ready to snap. My thoughts drift to my books, my words, the stories waiting patiently inside me, but they are buried beneath meeting agendas and the constant thrum of responsibility.
I slip on my headphones, searching for solace in a Jesse Michels’ episode, the sound of exploring concepts bigger than these deadlines. The world he speaks of feels far beyond my current reality — distant, but comforting.
Listening to podcasts while I plug away at contracts helps fuel my curiosity and creativity. I’ve found if I can keep those two things sparking, my mindset towards the day is lighter, more approachable.
In the evening, I read more pages of Crown of Midnight and schedule two new Substack posts (are you there, god? and Fall Into These Reads: My Autumn Booklist). This feels like progress, like a small patch of sunlight breaking through the grey. I cling to that brightness, letting it carry me through the evening as I cook dinner and cozy up with my cat, imagining a world untouched by the sharp demands of capitalism.
Wednesday, September 18th
The day falls through my fingers before I even open my eyes. I wake in a rush, my heart racing before my feet touch the floor. There’s no time for stillness today — no soft morning light, no books or coffee rituals. Instead, I tumble headfirst into work, caught in the chaotic corporate rush and RTO policies.
The hours blend together in a haze of Slack pings, redlines and numbers. Each second feels sharp, cutting away at the part of me that longs to write, to breathe in the quiet between tasks. But there’s no coming up for air today.
Without the space to pour into my projects, I feel a familiar sourness creeping in. I work until about 8pm. I’m exhausted, grumpy, and hungry.
Before bed, I reach for my journal, the paper cool and inviting beneath my fingers. I let the words fall gently from my pen, weaving a poem like a soft, sacred spell meant to quiet the noise. I find peace in my journal’s soft energy, its weight a comfort in my hands.
Thursday, September 19th
It’s official. My poetry collection, Earth Tides, made its way into the world one year ago today. I sit with this thought for a moment, letting it settle on my skin like a light mist. A whole year.
It feels both distant and near, as if time folded itself gently around the pages. My (now finalized) post It’s been a year since I published my poetry collection shares my reflections and my experience rereading Earth Tides, if you’re interested in reading about a poet’s nostalgia and gratitude towards their first book anniversary.
And then 9am rears its head, and the hum of work pulls me back. Emails, Slack pings, and the endless tide of tasks flood in, swirling around me as the hours blur into one another.
When the day finally releases me, my partner surprises me with a book anniversary dinner. We go to a nearby gastropub, and I indulge in a goat cheese salad, rich with fresh chicken, berries and walnuts, and a berry margarita. After, we enjoy Carvel ice cream, just because we can.
Twilight offers a soft, sweet wind. I feel summer melting into autumn as we walk into our apartment, laughing and full.
Friday, September 20th
The end of quarter looms larger today — a storm of tantrums, panicked emails, and sloppy errors tangle in urgency. If everything is urgent, nothing is. It’s one of those days where lunch is a distant dream, and I barely look up from my screen.
When the workday finally ends, I step outside, letting the sun touch my face. I go to the store and pick up a fresh bouquet of autumn flowers. I pick up ingredients for dinner and a bottle of Decoy, grounding myself in the simple act of chopping, sautéing, baking. Cooking feels like a kind of meditation, a way to shake off the day’s noise. I look ahead to the weekend — brunch in the Village, the autumn equinox — and I am lighter.
Saturday, September 21st
I wake early, have coffee and a yogurt parfait before boarding the 9:45am train to Manhattan. The weather is soft, the wind gentle. I take the forty-minute walk from Penn Station to Little Hen, where I meet my fellow poet and friend, Leisly Roman, for brunch.
Being around Leisly is a breath of fresh air. We enjoy pancakes, sausage, gluten-free eggs Benedict, oat milk lattes, and blueberry Prosecco. We talk writing, new projects, and the recurring themes in our work — mental health, and how we approach navigating life when things get hard. Inspiration sits beside us at the table, flickering a light on inside me.
Before parting, we walk through Washington Square Park. I leave two copies of Earth Tides in hidden corners, hoping someone stumbles upon them and finds a piece of themselves inside. I took a poetry class at NYU one summer break during in high school, and spent many afternoons writing in this very park.
It feels fitting, full circle, to be here again — giving my poetry back to one of the places where it all began.
Sunday, September 22nd
This morning is pancakes, fresh berries and bananas, and hot coffee, back at my favorite Sunday breakfast spot with my partner.
In honor of the autumn equinox, I share this poem on Instagram and Substack Notes, feeling the shift of the season both inside and out:
After eating, we dedicate the day to rest and recharge. I play The Sims, cuddle with my cat, and finish up some Sunday chores. Crown of Midnight is calling (I end the evening on page 225 of 420), and I let Gilmore Girls play in the background, a familiar comfort.
Later, I review two poems that were shortlisted for the 2025 Central Avenue Poetry Prize Anthology. We’re in the copyediting phase now, and my heart warms at how these poems have found their home with Central Avenue. I cherish them deeply.
In the evening, my partner cooks dinner — salmon, asparagus, twice-baked potatoes, and more Decoy wine. As I work on this post, I battle the familiar imposter syndrome, wondering if my truth has a place in this echoing digital space.
But I refocus. Why am I taking note of the small things during weeks like this, where I’m mostly grumpy and stressed?
To celebrate my small wins — the moments of empowerment I’ve nurtured in the midst of everything:
a) I battled through another rough end-of-quarter week
b) I read half of Crown of Midnight
c) I brunched with one of my favorite poets
d) I prepped Substack and Instagram posts for my writing accounts
e) I copyedited poetry for an anthology I’ve been accepted in
f) I gave myself the grace to rest during an overwhelming season
I remember when the weight of the day job pulls me under, it’s the writing that breathes me back to life. It’s this Substack, Once Upon a Writing, the books on my nightstand, the words waiting to spill across the page. If I turn inward, pouring what energy I have left back into myself, I feel so very alive.
How do you navigate the rough weeks and pour back into yourself? And how do you balance your responsibilities and creative passion projects? Let me know in the comments!
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with love, amy elizabeth
