Welcome to the Adventure

Why this, and why now?

Listen, I’m probably going through something, for better or for worse. If you’re interested, I’d like to tell you about my life, especially the last year or so, and the reflections it has brought me to. But I have to warn you, its a bit dark, and maybe a little bit too heavy for an introductory post.

Going on six years ago, my husband and I moved to Portland, OR from out of state. I got a job as a federal employee working for the USDA Natural Resources Conservation Service. (If you know anything about American or government history, that agency started out as the Soil Service after the multi-year catastrophe that was the Dustbowl.)

Anyway, I loved the idea of the job. The work itself was important, monitoring forested and agricultural lands for changes and concerns, building a longitudinal dataset going back to the 1970s, the analysis of which was tied to Farm Bill money, and other important federal decisions around conservation. But the work was monotonous, not public facing, and isolated from the rest of the agency, even. We were the wizards behind the curtain, so to speak, while our NRCS peers were out working with farmers and doing field work to collect soil and water samples. So, even though the salary was only borderline livable for west coast life, I stayed. I knew I’d have to bide my time and move around to other agencies to have upward mobility or use my preferred skillsets, but in the meantime I had good benefits, loved my coworkers, had work-life balance, and was doing meaningful work.

Then, 2025 arrived. The new administration made sweeping and abrupt changes to the structure of the federal government, especially in agencies dealing with science, research, and natural resources. The job went from a little bit boring to extremely stressful, and with all the cuts and the hiring freezes, I was left with the threat of layoff and my longer term career plans were rendered… impossible? lost forever? utterly dead?

Then, in April, my father had an unexpected accident. It was so trivial as to be offensive. It seemed impossible to be so seriously injured by such mundane circumstances. I flew back home to Michigan because he was in a coma, and the medical updates just …got staggeringly worse each day. After about 10 days, I flew home, and resigned from my job under the “buyout” offer. It would give me 6 months lead time of guaranteed pay while I searched for a new job, rather than waiting for a surprise layoff at an unknown date and scrambling to redirect. More importantly, it would allow me to temporarily return back to Michigan for what we thought at the time would be my father’s long term recovery and rehabilitation. Then…. he died.

He, too, was utterly dead.

My father was a dreamer. A do-er, too, yes. But a dreamer. He dreamt big and had big plans for what the future would hold. I inherited this trait from him. I inherited his anxiety, though, too.

Losing him so suddenly, him at age 59 and me at age 36…. it was jarring. No shit, I know. Obviously, as any death is. But you always think you have more time. I had always envisioned a day when his hair had finally gone grey, one where I would have to argue with him about moving cross country to be nearer to me as he aged. Watching my mother cope with losing him, dealing with estranged family that introduced even more drama and tension than the situation already had, and reckoning personally with the roles of logistics coordinator, family mediator, patient advocate, shoulder to lean on, all left little room somewhere in the mix for ….griever. I stayed with my mother for a month after his passing, while my husband held down the fort at home with work, our dog, our chickens. I came home in late May, shell-shocked and unemployed, with 3.5 months left to find a new job before my salary ended.

I applied to plenty of state, city, and county jobs in conservation, but my varied background experience and off-topic linguistics degree weren’t doing me any favors. Neither was the new influx of other laid-off federal employees I imagine were flooding the job market alongside me.

Then, I found a job posting for something that many people imagine to be a dream job. (Since I still work here full time, I won’t be too specific.) It wasn’t exactly what I wanted or had planned to pursue, but it is a respectable job and would allow me to serve the community, get exercise, and keep similar benefits.

Well, I’m six months in, and it’s been… interesting. I thought I did “all the right things” to grieve in a healthy way, and be a responsible, laboring member of society. But the job is a lot harder than people think. Mentally, physically, and emotionally. I walk as much as 15 miles a day, rarely less than 9, and work up to 6, sometimes 7 days a week. Days off are unpredictable. So, no normal weekends with friends and family, not able to plan or commit to anything more than a week ahead at a time, very limited time off, and lots of late nights. Don’t get me wrong, I love the job in a lot of ways, but I fear that my body and my social circle probably can’t sustain this for the rest of my life.

So now we are here, a year after his death… somehow.

Remember when I said my dad and I are both dreamers and do’ers? Let’s get back to that.

Walking alone by myself all day, my little neurodivergent brain gets to have a field day. It’s like “shower thoughts” except 9 hours long. So, I think about Dad. I think about all the trailers and hot-rod chassis he welded. I think about all the mechanical and salvaged material DIY upcycle projects and repairs he did. I think about how his friends, when asked where they got said items, would say: “I got it from ‘Kraft Mart’. Dave is the best.”

I think about Dad’s dreams and how even though he retired early at 52, he got stuck in fear and caution and waiting for the right time, and didn’t chase all of his dreams. And now, that chance was ripped away from him completely. I think about my own dreams, and realize I have a lot more of them than I thought I did. I thought I was just a multi-passionate creative who was being smart and finding balance… but I’ve come to realize that if I describe how I envision my retirement, it’s really just all the things I wish I could do now, but feel as though I have to wait for permission to take a risk on them because I “finished the race” first, or will be too old to care what people think of me anymore. But with the state of the country and the world as it is now, and if you can die suddenly at ANY moment, does it really make sense to wait for a day that may never come?

I know, that’s really effin’ grim, and I’m sorry. But it’s the reality of how I am feeling recently, and I think that I’m probably not the only one who is at my wit’s end with burnout and fighting off the urge to just give up and be jaded. Looking back on my career, I realize now that despite my so-called introversion, I feel at my best when I host a free sewing club, volunteer with citizen science programs, or do conservation educational outreach. I love meeting new people, creating, and connecting.

Reality is kinda jacked up right now, and we all are craving whimsy and connection. But even whimsy, self-care, and community are all getting canned up and served to us now as another array of consumer products. It’s a lot easier to check out, disassociate, maybe buy a silly trinket online, and kick back to consume a steady-dripped cocktail of gloomy news mixed with baseless garbage designed to be hard to look away from, and just a splash of people who, artificially, seem to be living the dream for the rest of us.

So, why this, and why now?

Well, because I want to connect with you.

I want to help people like my grieving mom. People who have a limited in-person social circle, have not touched their art supplies in ages, and would benefit from social connection and creative expression with no strings attached. I want to help people reconnect with their inner child and rediscover their creative spark. Big picture, I want to grow enough to be able to commit to this full time in the next year or two. I want to establish a third space where you don’t have to spend $100s of dollars to be there, or necessarily drink alcohol, or feel imposter syndrome because you don’t have a certain artistic skill level. I want to offer low-barrier-to-entry social events where you don’t have to feel sick to your stomach about trying something new with strangers. I want to add value to this beautiful, wild, weird city. I want to connect with other community builders who dream big, and DO big. I want to honor my Dad, learn from his mistakes and our shared flaws, and make him proud.

So, here I am. Kraft Studio is my personal twist on dad’s “Kraft Mart”.

Thanks for being here.

With joy, optimism, and a little healthy fear—

Jen Kraft