V. H. King's Ink

Back in February, when my doctor told me that I needed to stop working full-time, I was at a loss. First of all, I couldn’t afford it. Second of all, I had spent my entire life preparing to work a full-time job. And yes, I had outrageous anxiety and one existential crisis after another, wondering if I actually could work full-time.

My doubts plagued me at every turn. Would I ever be hired? Would I be able to do the job I got hired for? What if, for whatever reason, I wasn’t doing my job well enough and they decided to fire me? Although I was aware my health was not the best, this always took a back seat. I saw no option except to meet predetermined expectations regardless of the toll it took on my body. That’s what I was supposed to do, right? What else could I do?

February felt like a kind of rock bottom. No one teaches you how to be disabled in your twenties. I felt like my life had evaporated before I’d gotten a chance to figure out what it was I really wanted to do or what I was actually good at. If I couldn’t work, what would I do?

It’s nearly July now. And, to my chagrin, I am working more than ever. There’s priority processing for my formal job duties. There’s the planning and organizing that’s part of my committee work. There’s the work of developing resources and guides–which, while this is nowhere in my current job description or professional roles, it’s the work I’ve discovered I’m good at, the work that I enjoy, and the work I believe in.

Were my health not in its current state; if I had the luxury of charting a career change without the constraints of time–I could easily see myself doing this sort of work full-time. For the past few months, I’ve told myself that maybe I didn’t have to stop working. Maybe I could find a way to get by, regardless of how dreary the work seemed. Why was I so stuck on working? Mostly because I was afraid of being bored. I was willing to work, even if my heart wasn’t fully in it, because I have been conditioned into the belief that I need to earn the activities I enjoyed. I couldn’t just write and make art. I didn’t deserve that–did I?

Today was the first time I realized I very well could walk away from my job. Not yet, because there’s the whole bit of rent and moving and the busiest processing time of the year for the office where I work. But I could do it. Remember all those crises, wondering what I was good at and whether or not I could get hired? I’ve discovered a goldmine of things I’m good at. I have an extensive portfolio, put together in a short amount of time, demonstrating the caliber and quality of work I can do in my spare time. I’m confident in the projects I completed and I know that, given the opportunity and the resources, I could do even more.

Even factoring the growth spurt I’ve had in the past year, I could still walk away. Why? Because even if I’m good at these new projects I’ve been focusing on; even if I might make an ideal candidate to hire–I’ve learned that my real work happens regardless of whether or not I’m employed. What I’m really meant to do isn’t bound by a job position or a committee role. It’s hard work, it’s constant work, and it’s fulfilling work.

What kind of work am I talking about? It’s the work of caring. Caring for my own body, mind, and being. Caring for the people in my community and support network. Caring enough to challenge others on their assumptions and attitudes. Caring enough to confront my own biases and re-evaluate my blind spots. Caring enough to keep learning and keep growing. Caring enough to extend compassion without reserve.

I have never looked back on the hard journey of learning my own limits and said to myself, “I wish I didn’t know I was disabled”. Not once have I thought about the complexity of my Blackness and decided, “You know, embracing my Blackness just isn’t worth it”. I have never regretted facing the uncomfortable parts of my experiences, the complicated intersections of my privilege, the strained nuance of my faith. Doing so teaches me what I value and clarifies where I am putting my effort and spending my energy. It puts things into perspective.

The other day I was talking to a friend of mine and explained that the hard times make things simpler for me. When life feels absolutely crushing and I feel powerless in the face of all that I cannot change, my focus tends to narrow–often down to the person right in front of me. I’m convinced that how I treat myself and others says more about me than anything else. All other expectations I have for myself fall away other than this: to myself and others with care. That’s it. That’s the work.

So how did I get to this place where I decided I could walk away? It finally clicked that stepping back from full-time work is an act of self-care. It’s still scary in a lot of ways, because it requires me to lean on community when I have spent all these years striving for self-sufficiency. At the same time, the prospect of walking away feels very appealing. I could just write and make art. I certainly have enough in my repertoire.

I don’t know what will happen between now and this time next year. I don’t know what opportunities might arise. But I have a sense of peace, knowing that, whether I have a job or not, I know the work I do. And I intend to do it well.