Fun-Employment Saga: I Accidentally Became a Fish Doctor

A friend recently introduced me to the term fun-employed. It describes someone who voluntarily leaves their job before finding another one.

It’s a much nicer way of saying, “She quit with absolutely no backup plan.”

I liked it immediately.

Fun-employed sounded adventurous. It sounded like the season of life I’d been dreaming about for years. I’d finally have time to write my comedy show, build my speaking business, read books that weren’t about leadership, and maybe discover hidden talents I never knew I had. Pottery. Painting. Pickleball. Something that required a linen shirt and a leisurely Tuesday afternoon.

Instead, life had other plans.

My daughter wanted her own pet. We already have a dog, but apparently that wasn’t enough because, as she explained: “The dog belongs to everyone. I want something that’s just mine.”

A betta fish seemed like the perfect solution. They’re inexpensive. They live in a tiny tank. They don’t bark, shed, or require doggie daycare. This felt like one of the better financial decisions I’d made recently.

Then one day, my daughter came to me looking genuinely concerned.

“Mom... I think something’s wrong with his eye.”

Sure enough, one of his eyes looked like it was trying to escape his body.

Old Sheila would have looked at the fish, said, “Well... that’s unfortunate,” and headed off to work.

Fun-employed Sheila had time. Which, I’ve learned, can be a dangerous thing.

I started researching. One article became five. Five became twenty. Before long, I was reading aquarium forums written by people who appeared to have dedicated their entire lives to the emotional well-being of tropical fish.

Naturally, I called a fish veterinarian.

Yes, that’s a real profession.

The receptionist cheerfully informed me that a virtual consultation would be $250. For perspective, the fish cost less than six dollars.

I thanked her for her time, hung up, and consulted the only expert I could currently afford: ChatGPT.

Within the hour, I had ordered Indian almond leaves from Madagascar and specialized fish salts. I was giving this $5 fish a spa salt bath for 20 minutes every day. And get this—the eye got better! I am a fish goddess!!

I celebrated too early. A week later, a white spot appeared on his side.

Back to ChatGPT: “Could be cancer.”

Fantastic.

Now I needed a new filter. A heater. More natural leaves. Pine cones from a tropical location. Maybe some shrimp. A couple of snails (very specific snails). Possibly emotional support for the fish—but not another fish, because bettas feel deeply threatened by other fish.

At some point, while ordering betta medication from a black market tropical fish site, I had a moment of clarity.

I quit my job because I thought I’d finally have time to create. Instead, I became completely consumed by a fish that, statistically speaking, was already living on borrowed time.

The funny thing is, I don’t actually regret it.

What surprised me was how quickly I found something else to fix. It made me wonder if my job had never been the thing keeping me busy in the first place.

Maybe I’ve just spent my whole life believing that if I’m not solving a problem, I’m wasting my time.

Quitting my job didn’t change who I am. It just gave me more time to notice.

— Sheila