I’ve been let go before.
I know the tone of a voice saying goodbye forever.
I know the practiced language,
the careful words meant to soften the blow.
This time, it hit different.
Maybe it was my mom being let go too,
with blatant disregard for the bigger picture.
Our names erased together,
the only two Black faces
deemed unvalued.
Maybe it was the lies
spoken loudly throughout the years,
then proven false,
yet still forgiven,
while truth cut sharply and quietly,
with no one willing to defend it.
Maybe it was the smiling,
the forced politeness
toward someone
who I knew planted division
and watched it grow.
Maybe it was the promises made to me,
said with confidence
and never delivered.
Or maybe it was being encouraged to quit my part-time job,
my safety net,
to trust the word secure,
only to watch my full-time job vanish
in the blink of an eye.
But none of that was the deepest wound.
The pain came
when they told me
I no longer brought value.
After the long hours, the extra work,
and the quiet persistence of teaching others
over and over
until they finally understood.
After being called
reliable,
efficient,
organized,
and a great worker…
I logged into that meeting expecting
recognition,
a raise,
gratitude.
Instead,
I was told,
you no longer add value.
I still feel that sentence
reverberate in my head,
echo in my ears,
beat in my chest.
Later,
I cried in my therapist’s office,
grief spilling out
for the year and a half
that had taken so much from me.
Aunt Pam.
Uncle Eric.
The weight of caring for Great Aunt Beverly.
My mother Debra’s loss
mirroring my own.
And finally,
I thought of me.
Who am I
without the job I loved?
What becomes of me now?
There was no shoulder
to cry on,
not my mother’s,
not that day.
We were both already falling.
So I write.
I type.
I cry quietly
as the tears hit the keyboard.
I am still confused.
Still hurt.
Still asking how to trust again,
whether this pain will follow me,
whether I will have to leave
the place I call home
just to survive.
Writing helps,
and then it doesn’t.
The sadness has returned…
I know the tone of a voice saying goodbye forever.
I know the practiced language,
the careful words meant to soften the blow.
This time, it hit different.
Maybe it was my mom being let go too,
with blatant disregard for the bigger picture.
Our names erased together,
the only two Black faces
deemed unvalued.
Maybe it was the lies
spoken loudly throughout the years,
then proven false,
yet still forgiven,
while truth cut sharply and quietly,
with no one willing to defend it.
Maybe it was the smiling,
the forced politeness
toward someone
who I knew planted division
and watched it grow.
Maybe it was the promises made to me,
said with confidence
and never delivered.
Or maybe it was being encouraged to quit my part-time job,
my safety net,
to trust the word secure,
only to watch my full-time job vanish
in the blink of an eye.
But none of that was the deepest wound.
The pain came
when they told me
I no longer brought value.
After the long hours, the extra work,
and the quiet persistence of teaching others
over and over
until they finally understood.
After being called
reliable,
efficient,
organized,
and a great worker…
I logged into that meeting expecting
recognition,
a raise,
gratitude.
Instead,
I was told,
you no longer add value.
I still feel that sentence
reverberate in my head,
echo in my ears,
beat in my chest.
Later,
I cried in my therapist’s office,
grief spilling out
for the year and a half
that had taken so much from me.
Aunt Pam.
Uncle Eric.
The weight of caring for Great Aunt Beverly.
My mother Debra’s loss
mirroring my own.
And finally,
I thought of me.
Who am I
without the job I loved?
What becomes of me now?
There was no shoulder
to cry on,
not my mother’s,
not that day.
We were both already falling.
So I write.
I type.
I cry quietly
as the tears hit the keyboard.
I am still confused.
Still hurt.
Still asking how to trust again,
whether this pain will follow me,
whether I will have to leave
the place I call home
just to survive.
Writing helps,
and then it doesn’t.
The sadness has returned…
RSS Feed
