#partly because i'd also love to have some technical knowledge

[depoteka]

the older i get the more impressed i am by people who do any "regular" manual work that doesn't require uni education. if somebody told me they're a lawyer i'd yawn but if somebody said they're a shoemaker's apprentice my face would look like this 😮

[im-not-corrupted]

A little 4.4k Dreamling drabble involving retired!Dream! Written for @samsalami66, who chose the prompt 'Where have you been?' from this list of prompts here!

This is technically an epilogue to Shoulder the Sky (please look at the warnings if you want to read this! It is heavy) and takes place after it's partly-written sequel I've yet to post. It can be read entirely separately though, with little confusion :)

Warnings: References to Depression, References to Past Suicide Attempt. Neither of these are graphic or anything, but figured I'd mention them just in case!

------

He thinks about it for a little while before taking pen to paper, admittedly.

Mostly because it needs to be perfect. There’s a lot of thought that goes into something like gift giving. Even before—before this, before Hob took care of him, gave him a place to stay, offered him all the care and affection Morpheus could ever need—it was something he put a great amount of effort into. Gifts are…important. Significant. They mean something, and Morpheus thinks this one means a lot.

Because this is a gift for Hob, and he loves Hob. He loves Hob like a heartache, a physical thing he feels when sitting next to his partner. His boyfriend, a term which still manages to make him so joyful he’s tempted to use the word ‘giddy’ for it even two years after they established their relationship.

It is not just that he loves Hob. That is a big part of it, of course. Morpheus cares about him, and wants to do something for him. It is as simple as that, a lot of the time. Morpheus does not gift things to just anybody.

This time, though? It is…also a token. Of appreciation. For—well, for everything.

The two of them have been through. A lot. Morpheus’s gradual spiral into depression—he has a diagnosis now, which does wonders for when he feels as though this is some kind of weakness—until he found himself unable to continue with his function. His brush with Death, who offered him a way out that was not the Sunless Lands. Hob grieved over him for a while. At first, this knowledge inspired a kind of wonder. Morpheus truly did not think he was the kind of being one would miss at the time. He was always in the background of things. The architect of s and nightmares, the king of the realm, the caretaker. That is all.

Yet Hob cares about him enough to have grieved for him. It is a heady thing, that knowledge. When he first learned of this, it made a part of him ache. He couldn’t quite understand the idea of somebody missing him enough to cry over him.

Now—now, this knowledge makes him ache with age-old guilt. Much of it, Hob has worked hard to alleviate, determined to tell him whenever the guilt grew too poisonous to deal with that he has no need to be sorry. To be guilty. That in the end, Hob is merely glad he chose another way out, that they get to live with one another for longer.

Morpheus thinks he is glad for it too. There is little more he has ever wanted than the ability to sit besides Hob on his couch, head resting on his boyfriend’s thigh as he runs his hands through Morpheus’s hair as the TV drones on, the touch soothing and gentle and so, so lovely. There is little more he has ever wanted but that simplicity—than the act of simply existing in another’s space, with few expectations and no functions to cage him.

It is a blessing, one he is glad he took the chance to take. He does not know what led him to take Death’s offer but a faint but determined spark of hope at the idea that things truly can change, even for him.

This—this life he has made for himself with Hob’s help, this new, wonderous life—is proof of that. That things do not have to be all bad.

It is progress, this thought process, that he knows Hob will be proud of, and as he walks away from the library—the library he works at, now, because he is human and he has a job and he can still connect with this part of himself because it wasn’t taken away from him during his transition from Endlessness to humanity—with his gift clutched tightly to his chest, he is glad. He is so, so glad that he did not take Death’s hand that day. In a year, as promised, he will tell her this.

(She will smile, he thinks. It will be tinged with old sorrows but it will be so glad. He cannot wait to see his dear sister Death simply so he can show her how much better he is doing now. This is what she has always wanted for him—the ability to find joy in life, the ability to look at the world and decide to live again and again. He is proud that he can do this.)

When he makes it to Hob’s apartment—their apartment, now that he has let himself officially move in, located above The New Inn. He avoids the establishment itself, slipping into the building through the back door used only for staff and heading straight up the stairs. He has found joy in spending time inside The New Inn. Things are not as…as terribly loud, these days. He finds himself overwhelmed occasionally—far less than before, and he is pleased with this obvious development—but overall, it is good.

But he has other pressing matters to attend to. He has a boyfriend to greet and a gift to give and he will be damned if he does not do these things as soon as possible.

When he unlocks the door, he calls out, “Hob?” There is a ritual—an established one, one he has been performing for a good year now—to entering the house after being out. He locks the door again and toes off his shoes, carefully placing them on the shoe rack against the wall. It is all neat in a way that pleases him. (His doing, this. Hob had never been particularly caring about where he left his shoes. At some point during his period of…transition, he supposes, Morpheus had stared at the pile of shoes in the corner and decided it needed organising, simply because the haphazard look of it seemed so impractical. Hob was more than willing to indulge him.) Then it is his coat, shrugged from his shoulders  and hung beside the door, right next to Hob. That sight brings out a sliver of joy, too, the sight of the two articles of clothing hung up side-by-side. It says they are together, and Morpheus enjoys the reminder.

It is something he did not think himself capable of keeping a year ago. Relationships have never been his forte. Yet—yet this one, he has worked hard on. This one, he has done better at. And now they are together, and he is happy, and things are…lovely. Golden, almost, in a way he never quite thought himself capable of having.

He has proved different to himself. He is proud of doing so.

”In here, love!” Hob calls out to him. His voice sparks a smile across ’s face. They hurt less than they did those first few days adjusting to his new found humanity. The other day, he looked in the mirror and saw the faint impression of laugh lines around his mouth. A strange thing to notice, that—he has never been so outwardly changed by something he has felt before. He has always loved the marks Hob wears—the crows feet, the worry lines that become more pronounced when he glances at Morpheus in concern, the dimple in his chin that becomes all the more pronounced when he grins.

He found himself happy for it, the visible proof that things can change and get better. That he is happier now. Those marks serve as proof. He has seen Hob staring at them a couple of times, the joy in his eyes bordering on reverence. Sometimes, he traces them with ever-gentle fingertips. He holds himself at bay always, Hob does. Always unwilling to hurt him despite his previous inclination for violence.

He follows Hob’s voice, ignoring the way anxiety worms its way into his stomach. It is easier to ignore now, and though he clenches the leather-bound journal held tightly in his arms a little more, he allows himself to breathe. This is Hob. There is nothing to be nervous about, he knows. If anything, Hob will love his gift. He is confident of that.

Hob is, strangely, already in bed despite the fact that it is only late evening. Morpheus leans against the doorway and watches him for a moment. He is lovely to look at, his dear Hob. All soft and golden as he pays close attention to the book he holds in his hands, so very concentrated. The sight widens the smile that has already made itself home on his face. He does not mind it at all.

”Hello, love,” Hob says as he glances up. His eyes land on Morpheus as easily as ever, familiar and comforting, and Morpheus is alight with the knowledge that this is his. That he is allowed the sight of Hob’s eyebrow raising curiously as he notices the journal he holds close to his chest, almost protectively, as he smiles in that little way he does whenever he sees Morpheus. It is a heady thing, the knowledge that he is allowed all of this, and it is not one he thinks himself capable of getting over. It will always be a miracle, this love. This life, small but his, full of choices he made on his own. Independently, with Hob’s helpful advice, with his boyfriend’s cheerleading.

He is lucky, he knows. And he is so, so grateful.

”Where’ve you been, my dear?” Hob asks him. There’s a bit of concern there, thinly veiled, and it tugs at a part of Morpheus that once would’ve found offence in that small thread of concern. Now, it is an honour to be cared for by one such as Hob. He is glad for it. “I believe your shift at the library finished up early, didn’t it?”

He smiles, tentative and more than a little nervous. This is it. “I stayed at the library for a little longer. I was…finishing something. For you.”

He blinks, slowly as though unsure he processed Morpheus’s words correctly. Eventually, something fragile and lovely breaks over his face like the sun rising at dawn, and Morpheus is sure this is all he can ever want out of this life of his. Just this. The ability to come back to Hob, time and time again, and find joy in the quiet moments between them. “For me?”

”To show my…appreciation,” he says softly. He hopes it is enough to convey all he means by this. It is not only appreciation, but it is love too. Gratitude also, for all Hob has done for him.

There is less guilt now, but nothing quite lessens the impact of the knowledge that, ultimately, Hob went through a great deal aiding him. It is something he has grown to feel less shameful for, but not something he is well-equipped to show his appreciation for. But he thinks this will be a good way to show it—words have always come easier to him in stories, and this has been no different.

”Oh.” He frowns softly, and though he still looks happy at the idea of Morpheus having done something for him, his expression turns serious for a moment. “You know you don’t have to do anything for me, right? You’re my partner. Before that, my friend. I will do it all again and again, no matter how many times, if it means I get to keep you in my life.”

Unbidden, his eyes sting with tears. He stares at Hob and that declaration rings bright and true, and he laughs softly. “This is supposed to be about you,” he protests. It is weak, even to his own ears. He has always appreciated some reassurance, and he still does now. “I know, Hob. That’s not what this is. I only…wanted to do this for you. That is all.”

”Oh.” Hob’s eyes shine with what looks suspiciously like tears for a moment and Morpheus is momentarily plunged into panic, but it eases quickly. A grin takes over Hob’s face, bright and beautiful as the sun, and Morpheus is glad that this is how his life turned out like. He would go through it all again a thousand times if only to get back here again, to this moment. “In that case, I’d love to see it.”

It takes him a moment to move from the doorway. The journal in his hands remains clutched tightly to him, some part of him reluctant to let it go. It is a lot, he is aware. After he thought about it for a little while—a couple of weeks, admittedly, as he went back and forth over the idea until he decided to simply bite the bullet and commit. It meant something, he figured, that he continued to return to the idea, and so he began. He took pen to paper and started to write, and for the first time since his imprisonment, he found so much joy in a story. In the act of creating one.

Writing it took a while, too. All of it was done at the library, simply because he knew he’d be unable to stop himself from telling Hob everything if his boyfriend were to ask about it. Once he began, he was excited for it.

It was a slow process, of course. There are human limitations to contend with now. Cramps, for example, he found to be rather painful. After so long, he began developing calluses, too, which also hurt. It was worth it, though.

And now the pages inside are full of every little thing he can fill it with. There is an intimacy to writing  with a pen and paper he has yet to find elsewhere that gives him the ability to write truly, from the heart. It infused each page with everything he isn’t quite able to say in person.

He does not mind Hob knowing him like this, but there is a latent fear that he is too much. It is irrational, he knows now, but it is there. He acknowledges it for a moment. Stares at Hob’s eyes, slightly widened in wonder and looking at him with curiosity, and decides to just get it over with. Realistically, there is nothing to be too nervous about. This is Hob he is talking about. It is only the act of gifting something that bares his soul so blatantly, the act of giving something he himself had written with his own hand. It is different to have created something directly, instead of being the inspiration behind it.

But he is proud. And he thinks Hob will be too. He also thinks he knows his boyfriend well enough now to know that he will like the contents of his journal.

It is that which prompts him to move forward, gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed. Hob sits up properly so he no longer slouches against the headboard, all barely contained excitement with a smile on his face. He takes his bookmark from the bedside table and slots it in place. The book he was reading when Morpheus entered gets abandoned beside him, all of Hob's attention focusing solely on him.

It is just as wonderful, that attention, as it was the first time. It is something Morpheus thinks he will forever be affected by, and he counts his blessings in the comfortable silence that grows between them as he holds the journal out in front of him for Hob to take. It's a pretty little thing, the journal, bound in faux leather and the pages of decent quality. It was the first thing Morpheus bought for himself, with the money he earned working at the library. Hob, of course, made sure to tell him that he need not work for his own money--that his experiences in the 1600s had made Hob determined to never fall to such lows again. I have more than enough money saved up for the both of us. Would easily last us another century or two, love.

Morpheus had heard that and considered it, though only for a little while. In the end, he only...he wanted to do something for himself. Wanted to have the ability to live his own life independently. If he were not living with Hob, he knows he would manage well enough on his own now, even if he'd stumble a little initially as he learned the ropes. He does not regret his efforts in looking to work, nor does he see the time spent as a library as a waste. It gives him the ability to live for himself without having to rely so heavily on Hob, which he needed, if only to prove to himself that he could.

It is helpful, too, that he quite enjoys the work. He is surrounded by books on the daily, and he finds any of his difficulties with social interaction become so much less when he gets to talk about stories. It is a pleasurable experience he is glad he pushed himself to take, and he knows he will not regret a thing.

Hob takes the journal with gentle hands, holding it like it is something important. Special. Morpheus's heart aches in his chest at the sight. Hob does not even know what the journal contains yet, besides something Morpheus has done for him. Yet despite his ignorance, he treats it with reverence. Morpheus loves him dearly. "Are you sure?" he asks, looking up at Morpheus for a moment.

The concern is welcoming, and it is sweet of him. Morpheus smiles and though his heart feels a little like it is determined to beat fast enough it may fall out of his chest, he says, "Yes. It is yours. I would like for you to take it and read it."

So he does so, taking the journal from Morpheus and holding it before him. His excitement is palpable, and Morpheus watches the way he runs his hand over the faux leather as he opens the journal.

Inside, the pages are full of writing done in Morpheus's hand, all swooping, elegant cursive. This, too, is something that remained solely his upon transition. The more he learns about his latent abilities, about the things he continues to enjoy--art, sculpting things with his hands, stories--the more he is glad that he is still him. Glad that, in the end, these things are not Dream's. He is no longer Dream of the Endless, with a function and duties to attend to, with a purpose for his existence, yet he is still him.

There is a novelty in that. In the knowledge that he truly is somebody, and not the culmination of the collective unconsciousness's dreams. That he truly is a person, as Hob has tried so hard to tell him. He believes that now.

He watches the spark of curiosity in Hob's eyes grow larger, lighting them up. It is the same curiosity that inspires him to continue to live, that fuels his incessant love for life. Morpheus adores the sight of it on his face. "These Dreams of Hope," Hob reads, and it is when he reads the name underneath it that his head shoots up fast enough Morpheus fears he may hurt himself and stares at him wide-eyed. "You--You wrote this?"

That nervousness grows, but Morpheus nods. He trusts Hob. He trusts Hob with his life--he can trust him with this little thing too. "Yes. Nearly every page."

He laughs with an air of incredulity and doesn't tear his eyes from the journal. It is, admittedly, much thicker than most notebooks Morpheus himself has come across, and of a rather decent weight too. "How many pages even is this?"

"Around three hundred," Morpheus supplies. "I didn't fill in all of them, but close enough."

"You hand wrote nearly three hundred pages of--of what?" And that is wonder in his voice, and Morpheus knows he has not done wrong by choosing this as his gift to Hob.

Gently, he urges, "Read it. You shall see."

Hob looks at him for a second longer before nodding. "Alright. Would you lay with me while I do?"

"Gladly," Morpheus murmurs. He wants, he realises now, to see Hob's reaction. Wants to hear his reactions as he reads, wants to see if it moves Hob as it moved himself as he wrote it. He wants Hob to read every word on that page and see him, and he wants to be there when he finishes it. They could stay up all night until he does and Morpheus would not mind a single bit.

He settles in beside Hob on the bed, curling up against him. It matters not that he has yet to change out of the clothes he wore to work, or that it is still a little early in the day to be laying in bed like this. It is comfortable, and it is warm underneath the duvet, and despite the fact that it will make reading somewhat more difficult, Hob wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in close until Morpheus's head rests on his chest. It feels safe, and lovely, and Morpheus is glad he chose this.

"Comfortable?" Hob asks him, and there is a smile in his voice, and Morpheus is suddenly aware of how content he is. There is none of the raw, aching things harboured inside his heart. The wounds have long since healed, little more than tender scars that sometimes stung left behind. He is glad this is his life now. He is happy, and that is a glorious thing that has seemed impossible for so long.

"Very much so," he murmurs softly, and he hopes Hob understands it. He hopes Hob hears it all. "Come on. Read it. I want to know what you think.

In the end, the two of them read it together. Hob gets past only the first page and asks, "Is this about us?" in a tone so fragile and careful that Morpheus moved enough to be able to press a gentle kiss to his cheek as he confirmed it. After that, Hob starts reading out loud. It is soothing, each word said with such clarity, and Morpheus finds it is...it is lovely to have these things he wrote in his own hand read out loud by one so near and dear to him, and it is lovelier still to be able to acknowledge how well-done his writing is.

Eventually, they have to turn on the lamps on either side of the bed, bathing the room in soft, golden light. They take a couple of breaks for the sake of Hob's voice. And they both read the story of one immortal man who hoped with such insistence, with such power, that it rubbed off on the king who did not wish to be such, until he found the ability to take control of his own life once more.

A story of love, and of choices. Of friendship.

When Hob reaches the end, he lets the book fall against his chest. Morpheus squirms around in Hob's hold so that he can look up at his face. There is something so fragile there, something delicate. His eyes shine with tears, and Morpheus panics for just a moment until Hob moves suddenly until he is leaning over Morpheus and kissing him. It is a little rushed, and Hob's aim wasn't entirely accurate, but it is perfect regardless simply because it is them. It is him and it is Hob and it is lovely and warm and tender and Morpheus makes a soft little noise against his boyfriend's lips and holds him close.

This, he thinks, is what he wants for the rest of his life. More of this. Of the love and care offered to him; of the chance to move Hob with nothing but a story; of late nights spent reading to one another.

After a couple of moments, Hob pulls away. He looks down at Morpheus with such obvious adoration that he cannot help but preen, and he smiles softly as he cups Morpheus's cheek in his hand and watches him lean into it. The warmth of Hob's palm bleeds into his skin, joining the heat in his face that Hob's kisses tend to inspire in him, and he is so wonderfully happy it feels like a miracle. "It is--it is lovely, dear heart," his boyfriend murmurs. "You write beautifully. I'd say you should get it published, only I am terribly selfish and want to keep it all to myself. Shall I frame it? I'm sure I can do that."

He laughs softly. It comes easier to him, these days. "You are ridiculous," he informs his boyfriend, only he cannot keep the fondness from his own voice. Of course he can't. It infuses every part of him--it only makes sense that it would seep into his voice, too. Morpheus has always been one for feelings that resembled a wildfire, so all-consuming and bright. It is no surprise that, even when he is human, he fails to keep it all contained inside his chest.

"You love me anyway," Hob teases him.

And Morpheus does. He loves him, and he has the freedom to do so now. Has the freedom to lean up and brush his lips against Hob's and grin softly without worrying about ruin, about rules and warnings. "I do," he agrees, because though speaking his feelings aloud is certainly not his forte, it is something he is trying to be better at, simply because Hob deserves to hear it. Because he deserves to know that he has consumed  so thoroughly, so completely. "And you need not worry. Every word I wrote in that journal is for your eyes only, my love. Though. I am not opposed to the idea of...writing more stories. Of publishing, perhaps."

"Yeah?" He kisses Morpheus once more, little more than a simple brush of their lips, before he says, "If that is what you want to do, my love, you know I will help you with anything at all. I think you'd be great at it."

"Yes," Morpheus agrees. He is honoured to have Hob's support so easily, and more than grateful for it. "I believe I would be."

"You would." He moves to lie back down and they are so wonderfully close that Morpheus makes a pleased noise and snuggles up to him, and Hob laughs softly. It is lovely, and it is everything Morpheus has ever wanted. "So? Am I allowed to frame it?"

"If you must," he says with a sigh. He doesn't mean it. In fact, he thinks he would quite enjoy the sight.

"Wonderful," Hob says, and he wraps his arms around Morpheus's waist.

Neither of them are dressed for sleep, but they remain there for a little longer before deciding to move, far too comfortable and happy with their current arrangements to do much about it at all. The entire time, Morpheus clings onto him tight. He has never been so glad to have made one choice before, but humanity has proven to be rather wonderful so far, and he cannot wait to see where it leads him next.

[broken-clover]

now that im done with my live blog...you mentioned some ideas i gave you? care to share? :D And how was the rewatch for you in general? Anything that really sticks out for you in hindsight?

I really appreciate doing this rewatch, both because it was tons of fun, and because I think it helped loosen my writer's block! I ended up with a few concepts along the way, a couple I already scrapped because they were too rough or just wouldn't have been as interesting as I initially hoped, but there are a couple I'd at least like to try and flesh out proper

-Post-canon with the baby angels, with a mix of cute baby mischief and the angels reflecting on the past/their optimism for doing things better the second time around

-How the spirits originally ended up in the angels' possession, it was mentioned that the warriors 'disappeared' but also that the spirits were specifically given (this one is probably gonna get a little angsty and sad)

-Post-canon with the kids trying to re-adapt after being stuck in fight-or-flight for several months (this one is the most tenuous on whether or now I'll end up writing it, because it definitely would be pretty angsty and I don't know if that would be too much)

-Group hug fic. I don't care if it makes sense that it didn't happen in canon, or that I technically already did that with Acclimation, I'm giving Koichi a fucking hug

One of the really fun parts of going back to watch something again when you're older is that I've got a lot more knowledge and experience to analyze it critically. And I don't just mean spending the whole time going 'oh this sucks' because yes yes we all know the power scaling is stupid and parts of it were lowkey misogynistic and the pacing can be rough in spots, I mean it's fun to look at stuff on a technical level and in terms of its individual aspects.

For example, partly due to the dub changes and partly due to just being a dumb little kid, I hadn't realized there was a persistent theme of religion/mythology across the whole thing, and it was neat to notice! Considering that the Digital World's past and the mythos that sprung up around it and the legendary warriors themselves are a massive part of this world's backdrop, and the fact that the ultimate villain is based on Lucifer, the idea that a tyrannical fallen angel gets defeated by a group based on all different kinds of gods and creatures from all over the world is really very cool! I still maintain this series has one of the best portrayals of the Digital World

I'm not gonna say too much about the acting, mainly because I feel like having any serious complaints would be silly, I mean it was 2001 and I think anime in the US still had to have been a more niche thing, and even then I still hold a huge soft spot for early 2000's dubbing. Some of the things like dub-added accents were so gloriously stupid that I can't help still liking it. It still feels a little weird that EmperorGreymon was the only one with a sudden shift, but I can fully respect Reisz's concern about damaging his voice, gotta know your limits. (Apparently Wittenberg fully took over Takuya's part for the film, I'm gonna have to go back and see if it's obvious enough to notice. Also, fun fact that I would not have realized if I hadn't stumbled upon it, he voiced literally all of the Trailmon. Helluva range!)

(Also still a little surprised at Crispin Freeman's range, mainly because the others didn't seem to have as drastic a change between forms, but I love it! My only complaint in that looking up more of his voicework, the rougher voice seems to be the one he uses more often, and if I had to pick between the two I really do prefer the softer voice. Yes that's biased because I had a crush as a kid, and I'm not apologizing)

I think the pacing is still better than people tend to give it credit for, I could see the Knights arc being a couple of episode shorter, but I still stand by my belief that it really was good and did a good job in doing callbacks and hammering it home that yes, the literal world is being deleted in chunks and that is terrifying. If anything, I felt the only real part that was an 'oh god hurry the fuck up already' drag was getting to the castle and fighting Cherubimon, but at least that was just a couple of episodes and it gave us not-Christopher Walken.

Overall? Yep, I'm reaffirming my position as a Frontier apologist. Is it fine art? No, but who the fuck expects a shonen series to be fine art?? Sometimes you just need a ragtag group of kids making friends and saving the world, with plenty of fun stupid hijinks in between.

[twistedingenue]

I'm at work and not signed in but I'm thinking of moving to AZ and was wondering if you knew if the Tempe office was still looking for people? I've got a BA and I'm partly through an MA program but I don't know if I want to continue my MA and am looking for a decent job while I set up residency in AZ. I can't drive, and thanks to my ADHD I don't think working in a call center would be good for me either. I never thought I'd go into insurance but then I started thinking about it and I'm 1/?

actually intrigued, after reading all your posts. Also what made you go into insurance, and what was it like, at the beginning? 2/2

So first, message me when you are logged in and we can talk Tempe positions. My company in general, is doing a LOT of entry level hiring. They are mostly in call center positions, but not all of the call centers are alike.  And almost none at entry level are outbound or outbound sales.

So a few things I want to unpack:

1. Call Centers and ADHDThese are not mutually exclusive. I started in one, and I have a phone phobia alongside ADHD. The nice thing about my work is that it’s often WEEKS until you take your first call, and you do a lot of shadowing beforehand. I hated my call center position, but I THRIVED in it. I was able to hear better on a headset than anything else, and the work is not routine, each call is different, and that can be a bonus for someone with ADHD. A good call center will give you a foundation of material, ease you into taking calls, and support you when you have problems.2: Tempe office is right by ASU. I do not know specifics of their transit system, but I would imagine you would have some options RE not driving. (man, I wish I didn’t have to drive)

My personal story:

I got into insurance because I was a special ed paraprofessional making 15k a year, my husband was a student, and a 23k Call Center position was worth swallowing my fear (these same positions pay significantly more, now.) I came into this call center in 2008, and promptly the entire company was on a hiring freeze. I went into insurance because it was the best thing around.

I had about 8 weeks of training. I learned product content ,  procedures, and how to navigate our systems and the knowledge system. We role-played scenarios, listened to calls, learned a few strategies for deescalation. When we started to take calls, we were paired with a mentor, who was listening and helping us.

According to my husband, it was pretty similar in his claims call center a year ago.I worked in the call center for a little less than 2 years. Generally, you have an incumbency period that you have to meet before you can move about the company. Generally 12-24 months.

Call centers teach you how to immediately react to crisis, because you are often reporting problems and have to mitigate them as they happen, while systems tries to fix things.

After that, I moved into a claims-support department that determined the replacement value of contents from a loss. The department is now defunct, but this was my real introduction to insurance. Technically, this was still a call center, but with much less volume and not a primary job function.

This is when I googled for a living. This is when I shopped all day, and determined the value of Picasso’s, comic books, and beanie babies, and learned how to help people in the aftermath of their worst nightmares. I LOVED this job. It fascinated me and kept me busy. I learned the claims process, I learned the value of working fast and accurate, and even some accounting procedures.That department mostly closed (very stressful, I will add), and that’s when I snagged a promotion to Fire Underwriter. I started in Homeowners and then learned other product lines, and when the department decided to segment people to specific lines, I got the red-headed stepchildren products and it’s great. I know so much random shit now.

Basically, a lot of underwriting these days is automated. I think something along the lines of 70-80% of all applications are automated, leaving the rest for more manual review. Mine are all manual review, no automation at all. I decided to be a lot more proactive about putting myself out there, took insurance education classes and designations, etc, and it’s meant higher reviews, salary, and responsibility.

I grew to like insurance. I can’t help it, to deal with my ADHD, one of my tricks is to look for the interesting bits of what I am doing so I don’t get bored. And I grew a real love for personal lines. I’m creating a safety net --one of the most profound experiences I had was helping a woman get her TV replacement after a fire. She was under stress, Best Buy was being stupid, and I didn’t give up and got it to her. She got a little bit of normal back and someone that listened to her.

That’s the insurance industry for me, and that’s why I love it. We’re here for the worst moments of someones life.