The Invisible Black Woman

After getting off the call with my therapist, I was no closer to “figuring it out” as I was when I was talking to her. The conversation played back in my mind, perhaps in hopes of some eureka moment that would make everything fall neatly into place. I was doing all the mental gymnastics I could muster to ignore the raging elephant refusing to be ignored. The one that was staring me dead in the face as it screamed: We. Can’t. Go. Back.

Fraggle Rock my entire life.

I had always prided myself on being the one everyone could rely on, the one who held everything together. If something wasn’t working, I’d make it work. If something was missing, I’d find it. But now, the thoughts of worry that floated in my head collided against the elephant who refused to be ignored.

Me: What will happen to my team if I don’t come back?

Elephant: what will happen to you if you do!?

Me: But I left so much work behind to be done!

Elephant: that’s not your problem. They’ll figure it out.

Me: Doesn’t quitting make me a failure?

Elephant: Beats dying, don’t you think?

My therapist’s words had forced me to confront the reality I had been avoiding for so long—and I fully blame her for unleashing the elephant, but I’m not totally mad about it. The exhaustion, the anxiety, the overwhelming sense of dread at the thought of returning to work—all of it stemmed from a place much deeper than just the surface-level stress of a demanding job. It was rooted in an unhealthy attachment to my work, an attachment that had slowly eroded my sense of self.

That question she asked me, “Does it hurt more because you’ve equated your self-worth with your job performance?” That one made me wince.

My job had become the axis around which my entire identity revolved. Every achievement, every accolade, had reinforced the belief that I was only as valuable as my last success. And yet, here I was, on medical leave, coming to grips with the fact that I spent too much of the last 10 years with my job as the center of the universe.

So how could I let go? How could I walk away from something that had defined me for so long? The fear of the unknown was paralyzing, crippling, but staying on this path wasn’t going to end well for me. I swung between gratefulness at my therapist and anger at all of the things she was bringing to the surface. The idea of the unknown, as it related to my professional career, was nothing short of laughable to me. That I—the person who spent the better part of her childhood vexing her mom with the word why—should be okay with not knowing? Jesus himself threw up his hands when it came to me needing to know what comes next.

And granted, knowing the future in the general sense was very different to me than the future as it pertained to work. It’s never something I didn’t have figured out. It’s something I could always count on. Doing a job and not just doing it well, but exceeding expectations. It’s who I was. Every part of my upbringing dictated I had to be more than just so-so. And because of my childhood, and even later years, when I didn’t know where the next meal would come from, I heavily relied on my ability to always bring home the bacon, at all costs. To always have a side hustle on top of the day job because, you never know when they’ll downsize. To keep agents and staffing agencies on speed dial (just in case). When it came to my career, I didn’t leave anything to chance.

And that was the exact opposite of what I was being told to do. To be okay with whatever comes next, even if I have no say in what that next looked like. Even if that next means I didn’t go back.

Part of me was also angry at the fact that leaving was a decision I had to make in the first place. Having survived so many other bosses, why should they be the one to run me out? I remember so many times leading up to the night I went to the ER, I remember saying aloud to my husband, “I’ll be damned if they’re the reason I get run out of there.” I was defiant even. And it suddenly felt like they overheard those conversations and were like, “hold my beer.” Everything was calculating, hopeless, demoralizing… a setup from the moment I went from being the pet and rock star to being the threat and competition.

I was struggling with accepting it because I’d been treating my whole career as a game. The bad guy wasn’t supposed to win and that is exactly what was happening. More to the point, what does that say about me for saying, you win, I forfeit?

Yet despite that feeling of outrage and disdain, the thought of returning to that toxic environment, where I was expected to pick up the pieces without any regard for my well-being, filled me with dread. The pile of work waiting for me was growing by the day. That pile represented all the stress, demands, and expectations that drove me to the edge.

I was struggling to reconcile this unfinished business with who I was. I was always the fixer, the planner, the one who had it all figured out. I had a plan for the plan of the plan to the plan and a backup to the plan for the plan to the plan of the plan. Having less than 7 options for any scenario was mediocre at best and dangerous at worst in my view. Yet here I was with no plan, no roadmap to follow. I was applying to jobs daily and not a single callback to any one of them.

But maybe that was okay.

Maybe, for once, it was okay not to have all the answers, to not be the one with the plan. Maybe it was time to admit that I needed help, that I couldn’t fix this on my own. The idea of vulnerability had always felt like a weakness, but perhaps it was time to see it as a strength—a way to protect myself, to set boundaries that I had never allowed myself to set before. Maybe what I needed to consider is that my literal life was what hung in the balance. Not just a mere notion of winning versus losing.

As I sat there, lost in thought, the phone rang, pulling me right back to reality. It was the disability insurance. I’d had enough sense to save them on my phone so the calls were no longer being missed or going to voicemail.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Sarah. I’m calling to check in and see how you’re doing.”

 “I’m … doing.”

I could actually hear the warm smile in her voice. “I understand.”

“Well, we’ve received your paperwork, and I see you’re about to start your second week of therapy. How is that going?”

“It’s—it’s been helpful. A lot to process, but I think it’s what I need right now.”

“That’s good to hear. I wanted to let you know that, given your current situation and the recommendations from your healthcare provider, we’ve approved an extension of your leave for another month.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me, coupled with a split second of amusement at how quickly the tables turned just by my mere entertainment of the notion that I didn’t need to have it all figured out.

“Thank you… Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. We just want to make sure you have the time and space to focus on your recovery. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

As I hung up the phone, I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The thought of returning to work was still daunting, but at least for now, it wasn’t an immediate concern. I had a month—a whole month—to focus on myself, to figure out what I wanted, what I needed. Who am I kidding? At best, it would be a 1- to 2-week reprieve because that’s just how I roll.

I remember saying a silent prayer of thanks before going to tell hubby the good news. Week 2 of IOP began tomorrow, but at least the one thing I didn’t have to worry about was work.

For now.