List three jobs you’d consider pursuing if money didn’t matter.
If money were no object, I’d choose work that feels less like a job and more like a way of honouring what matters. Each of these roles is about restoration—of stories, of people, of things we might otherwise lose.
The Story Gatherer
I imagine a workstation circled by chairs, a table with tea and biscuits, and someone clutching a pen and notebook. I’d sit with them and coax the memories out: the stories half-told at Christmas, the songs their mother sang, the recipe that never had exact measurements but always tasted like home. My role would be midwife to their words—helping them stitch together a life’s patchwork so their children and grandchildren can hold it in their hands one day.
The Listening Mentor
Then I’d spend hours as a youth mentor: a park bench, a café, a long walk beside the water. A young adult launches in, speaking quickly, uncertainly, trying to piece together who they are. I wouldn’t solve every problem or give lectures. I’d just show up—steadfast, steady, a presence that says, “You matter. You’re not alone. You’ll figure this out, and I’ll walk with you while you do.” Parenthood without biology. Guidance without judgment. Roots for those still learning how to grow.
The Furniture Healer
And some days I’d step into a workshop smelling of sawdust and linseed oil. In the corner, a forgotten chair, scuffed and scarred, one leg loose, upholstery torn. I’d run my hand along the grain, and imagine the family meals it once witnessed, the secrets it overheard. With patience, I’d sand, mend, polish, restore—bringing back dignity to something the world had deemed disposable. Not just furniture, but a resurrection of beauty and usefulness.
A Thread of Restoration
At first glance, these three jobs—story gatherer, mentor, restorer—seem unrelated. But they’re bound by a single thread: the work of restoring what might otherwise be lost. Stories. Hope. Craft. Each, in its own way, is about refusing to discard what is precious simply because it looks worn.
If money didn’t matter, that’s the work I’d spend my days doing: the quiet, patient labour of giving people—and things—back their voice, their dignity, their place in the world.
The Afterword 
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