Good morning,
This week called for metabolizing what I feel about the things I’m studying and experiencing: how and why our relationships with care are just so hard to get right, and how wonderfully padded with ease this life of ups and downs can feel when supported by trusted systems and relationships.
So I wrote a poem.
No One Told Me This Was Work
(what invisible labor feels like)
No one told me this this was work:
No one told me that
making three meals a day and
finding the language
to express how something feels
without fighting, flighting, or freezing
is a day's work.
No one told me that
staying in touch
is work.
No one told me that
finding a way to connect over distance
(especially the worst kinds,
like age and life stage and closed hearts)
is difficult work.
No one told me that
developing trust in yourself
is work.
No one told me that
keeping a place
clean and safe
while also
staying well
in your body
is work.
No one told me that
caring for both
yourself
and an environment
at the same time
is a complicated negotiation
of competing priorities.
No one told me that
navigating trade-offs
is work.
No one told me that
keeping your innermost self
alive and fed
while tending
other fragile hearts
is work.
No one told me that
holding your past,
your present,
and an unknown future
all at once
without letting any of them
become a landslide
is work.
No one told me that
feeling safe
takes work.
No one told me that
learning someone
well enough
to offer them
just what they need
takes time,
patience,
and design.
No one told me that
design
is work.
No one taught me how to work:
No one taught me
how to build a calendar
that makes everyone feel seen.
No one taught me
how to make a morning
become the engine
for a good day.
No one taught me
how to track multiple,
overlapping moods.
No one taught me
how to navigate
the landmines between
want and need and must.
No one taught me
how to create
a micro-culture
that gives
more than it takes.
No one taught me
how to share space
with people
who sometimes
hurt you
without meaning to.
No one taught me
how to receive criticism
as information,
not insult
until I realized:
it was work.
If care were a job,
we might be able to say:
I'm still learning:
I'm good at this part,
I need help with that one.
I need a break:
the scope of my work outgrew
what I have capacity for at this moment.
I'm proud of how that went:
it took long hours to get here,
I learned so much along the way.
I didn't do so well this season:
I want to do my best the next—
can you help me figure out how?
If care were a job,
I might have the guts to say:
She is not kind,
she is working.
He is not talented,
he did his best.
She is not maternal,
she is offering presence.
They are not capable,
they are trying.
He is not steady,
he has trained himself
to hold the weight.
They are not selfless,
they are practicing
the skill of restraint.
She does not yet love you,
but she wants for
you to feel loved.
We are not naturals,
we are working.
We are not confident,
we are experts
in self-doubt.
We are not healed,
we are creating spaces
that hurt less.
We are not running from tradition,
we are architects
collecting data
on invisible infrastructure
so we can build:
our work.
To all those who worked before me:
Did you know that
you constructed
an impossible result
with no training
and no words?
Did you know that
when you tried
to break the norms
around you
you were defining a field of work?
Did you know that
even when
you were not so good
at your job,
your best efforts
became muscle memory
for those who received your care?
Did you know that
even your worst efforts
became valuable data
for those of us
getting ready
to work?
To all those working alongside me:
I hope we can use our words to see our work.
I hope we can feel it in our bodies as work.
Not grief or burden
from which there is little respite,
but work.
Because work:
work demands support
work demands training
work demands intention
work demands a team
work demands mistakes
work demands practice
work demands patience
work demands failure
work demands innovation
work demands fulfillment
And workers demand grace.
I hope in my work:
to make many new mistakes,
because new mistakes are only possible
when old ones are seen
as someone trying their best
to work.
Happy Monday,
Jihii
Jihii, your thoughts and writing on the invisible labor of work & caregiving have been deeply resonating and healing <3 Thank you :)
So powerful, so beautifully written. I see you ❤️