The Doe’s Latest Stories

Dear Mrs. Obama:For my twenty-fourth birthday last year, I received a very exciting birthday present: a highly sought-after ticket to your book tour. I read your memoir in November 2018 and I was desperate to hear your story in person.One of the most memorable accounts that I read in Becoming was a scene that you described after the death of your father in 1991. You, your mother and your brother sat around the kitchen table, just staring at each other as you tried to take in the news. This was harrowing to read as similar scenes played out in my own family. We, too, lost the person at the very center of our worlds: my wonderful Dad.On a sunny bank holiday weekend in May 2018, my father suffered an unexpected and fatal heart attack. He was a healthy man and had just returned home from his weekly game of golf. Dad was the hardest-working person that I knew. He logged long hours and rarely ever did anything for himself. He was the epitome of a devoted husband, father and son; to me, he deserved the absolute world. Reading Becoming, I was inspired to learn how the loss of your father drove you to do good for those around you. In March 2019, I sat amongst a 20,000-strong crowd at London’s packed O2 Arena, hanging onto your every last word. It was fascinating to gain an insight into your White House years, but I wanted to know about your father’s influence in your life, whilst first experiencing life without my own.I began to realize the parallels between your father, Fraser Robinson, and my own dad. These were two men from different corners of the globe, one from the South Side of Chicago and another from Northern Ireland, who lived by the same high moral standards, serving their families first and foremost, and living out each day with the utmost kindness, honesty and integrity.That evening, as you sat alongside comedian Stephen Colbert, you explained how your father instilled in you a deep sense of self-worth. This resonated with me deeply and articulated so much of what I know is true of my own father. Dad taught my brother, sister and I that with hard work and determination, the sky is the limit. He taught us the little things like catching a ball, checking a car’s oil level and, once, the offside rule in American football. But most importantly, he instilled in us a fundamental sense of self-worth. As I gain more experience of life, I realize that this was the greatest gift he could have given me.Whilst serving as the First Lady of the United States, your father was often the subject of your speeches and it was evident that he influenced everything that you believe in, and everything that you do. In 2015, you delivered a speech to a high school audience and spoke of what your father’s loss has meant to you. This has stuck with me. “He is the hole in my heart. His loss is my scar, but…his memory drives me forward every single day of my life. Every day I work to make him proud.”So, early on in my own process of grief, I needed to be shown that the pain of losing a loved one doesn’t have to overwhelm you but can be harnessed to bring about good. You have shown this in abundance, with dignity, grit and with grace.I discovered your story at a very critical time in my life, a full decade after first being inspired by you and your husband. On November 4, 2008, I watched from my parents’ television as Barack Obama was elected the forty-fourth President of the United States. I was a thirteen-year-old living in London, but I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed as confetti rained down on you and your family. I didn’t know where Washington, D.C. was on the map, but I knew that this moment of “HOPE” was hugely symbolic. It was then that my love of American history was first born, and I have since gone on to complete an undergraduate and master’s degrees in American History and Politics.As your husband did for millions back in 2008, you gave me that hope at the end of 2018, the most challenging year of my life. Thank you for demonstrating how beauty can come from great pain and adversity. I know now that I am my father’s legacy and I will work every day to ensure that the love that he poured into me will bring light to many.Thank you for igniting this hope in me.Kindest regards,SWLondoner

For months on end, I’ve been watching media headlines highlighting President Trump’s COVID-19 response failure. Since early this year, many outlets have claimed that Trump’s response to the pandemic was a complete disaster, but multiple outlets have taken their journalistic opinion one step further, comparing Trump’s response to that of deliberate genocide. If you don’t believe me, take a few moments to preview any search engine and you will be overwhelmed with results either insinuating such an event or directly comparing him to the likes of a bloodthirsty Hitler. It was just recently that CNN’s Christiane Amanpour compared Trump’s time in office to Kristallnacht. This is certainly a mainstream thought.Regardless of how the media wants to portray Trump’s pandemic response, there is little room for personal feelings when America’s public health system has multiple, clearly outlined public health emergency (PHE) response guidelines. Granted, PHEs don’t come around often, and they haven’t been covered by the media in such detail in the past. But when they do—and they will again—we need to have a better understanding of who is responsible to support emergency relief. Unfortunately, like college freshmen attempting to reiterate the latest chapter in their introductory 101 courses to the rest of the class, the media has no place in pretending to act as public health experts. In the case of the COVID-19 pandemic, the media needs to be fact-checked, and as a public health professional, I’m here to translate the data.

The media has no place in pretending to act as public health experts.

The President’s Role Is to Allocate Funds and Provide Information

After graduating with my Bachelor of Science degree in 2015, I decided to continue my journey in pursuing health and complete my Master of Public Health degree. I found the topic of public health to be thrilling, to say the least. Public health services are greatly underfunded and underappreciated by the majority of Americans because, frankly, they aren’t very sexy. While the rest of us sleep, go to work and take care of our families, public health departments work around the clock to continuously provide services we take for granted. We have access to safe drinking water, a sewer system that prevents disease in our home and environment, and vaccines that generations prior to ours wouldn’t have dreamed of. We turn on the sink and fill a cup of water without a second thought.More than just day-to-day disregarded luxuries, the public health system is also responsible for planning how to combat theoretical natural disasters or infectious disease outbreaks. Yes, our country has been planning for this outbreak for years, and that should make you feel grateful. However, not many were happy with how the outbreak was handled. Most of the time it felt like we were in the dark, confused and frightened. We turned to our leaders and our leaders told us who was to blame: Trump. What the media failed to tell you was that Trump’s role in the outbreak was never supposed to be relatively invasive in the first place. The president was never going to show up at your doorstep to personally offer you a Kleenex. His role is to allocate funds and offer information that state and local health departments can lean on to improve their current plan of action, amongst other things. If you didn’t care about your local health department, you should now.The American public health service works on a hierarchy of services provided. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) provides an easy-to-interpret graphic that nicely outlines the public health service pecking order and states, “As depicted in the pyramid, United States’ governmental public health system represents a complex and broad range of federal, state, and local health agencies, laboratories and hospitals, as well as nongovernmental public and private agencies, voluntary organizations, and individuals. Federal agencies are represented at the top and health departments at the center of the pyramid because of their primary leadership responsibilities for developing a broad knowledge base so that policy is driven by long-range issues, ensuring that the public interest is served, and achieving a balance between individual liberties and equitable actions for the good of the community.”Note the most important piece of information here: Federal agencies are at the top of the pyramid, and the CDC describes health departments as primary leaders with heavy amounts of responsibilities. This remains true for PHEs, which includes infectious disease outbreaks. While President Trump was busy releasing trillions in relief funding to fill his role, your local health department should have been providing immediate calls-to-action and ensuring residents were supplied the tools or items they needed to safely endure an outbreak. You will notice that the bottom of the pyramid includes other team players, but all belong (with the exception of some public-funded educational institutions) in the non-government-funded private industry. Here’s the kicker: Each state has large control over their public health department funds. While the federal government does partially fund health departments, it is incumbent upon your state-elected officials to determine whether or not your department succeeds with the additional funding it needs.

Washington State Governor Jay Inslee Set a Dangerous Example

I happen to reside in Washington state, the first state in the country to experience a COVID outbreak. Our governor, Jay Inslee, was thrown in the fire—many months before other state leaders—to provide a response. For readers who aren’t familiar with Inslee’s policy, let me fill you in on a few details that were conveniently overlooked by the media. It wouldn’t be unlikely that your state had a similar discrepancy in coverage given that public health departments are often underappreciated.Despite appearances, Inslee has been denying adequate public health funding for years. According to a Washington state budget request, the state’s central laboratory that processes COVID-19 testing can’t even afford to service much-needed lab equipment. Seattle and King County’s policy and finance administrator for public health recently stated, “We aren’t fully able to address the capacity need for this outbreak without proper funding.” In 2016, Washington public health officials released a plan to boost budgets, pleading with Governor Inslee that, “if new funding is not provided to begin stabilizing local health jurisdictions, the erosion of critical public health services will continue to the point that the state and local communities will not be protected from disease outbreaks.” Health officials requested $30 million per year to repair years of underfunding; Inslee left them with $6 million per year.In 2018, the health department tried again, requesting an additional $150 million per year to address “critical gaps,” specifically noting the state’s likely inability to respond to a major emergency. Inslee reduced their request to a whopping $11 million per year instead. In 2019, the department made their rounds with Inslee and his team one more time, specifically requesting help for their laboratory, pointing out that “if the lack of funding continues, the laboratories will struggle with daily operations and will have challenges in responding to emergency situations.” The lab’s funding hasn’t changed since the fiscal year of 2011. That same year, the CDC released 15 “capabilities” state and local health departments should be prepared to serve during a disaster, and laboratory testing was first on the list.However, Inslee never skipped a beat during Washington state’s never-ending shutdown to miss deflecting his actions on Twitter. Inslee often criticizes his opponents on social media. He stated, “The Trump administration knows what Washington needs right now—the resources to fight the COVID-19 pandemic. If the president wants to show leadership and that he cares about the people in this state, he should send us the PPE we’ve needed for months.” Or, “The White House may have given up on fighting COVID, but Washington state will not.”

It is incumbent upon your state-elected officials to determine whether or not your department succeeds with the additional funding it needs.

We Must Invest More in Public Health Services

Given the clearly outlined emergency response hierarchy and straightforward financial requests from the health department, it’s difficult to imagine a situation where Inslee doesn’t hold a majority stake in basic emergency response responsibilities. This isn’t just Washington state; the National Association of County and City Health Officials states that while the public sector workforce has grown and recovered from the 2008 recession, health departments haven’t. Since 2008, health departments have lost roughly a quarter of their workforce, ridding their organizations of over 50,000 jobs nationwide. What is more disturbing about that statement? The fact that health departments lost one quarter of their workforce, or that one quarter of their workforce was only 50,000 positions to begin with?Before you point a finger at just one person, it’s fair to ask yourselves the following questions:

• Who is in charge of funding my health department, and how can I vote to increase funding where needed?
• What is the role of my local public health department in regard to a public health crisis?
• Do I feel comfortable with my local crisis response plan? If not, who can I reach out to in an effort to voice my concerns?
• What is the ultimate role of the United States’ public health organization? Do I expect them to cover all of my needs, or should I work on being more prepared myself?

Remember, at the end of the day, public health is a community service similarly to the police force or fire department. While not nearly as robust, it’s a beneficial public health service, not a cure-all for ultimately uncontrollable circumstances. Just like you wouldn’t blame an EMT for failing to revive a loved one who had a heart attack, it’s completely impossible for one single president, governor or health department to hold back an infectious disease that will ultimately move through a society. And yet your chances at receiving resources and care are much more dependent on your state or county, not President Trump.

I started writing this before Buffalo, then I scrapped it and started again, and then Uvalde happened. Here I am starting it over again. I work at a high school, and I started working on this story soon after there was a shooting there. I began as details were still coming out, full of speculation and, above all else, worrying about the safety of my students.The day followed as such. The seniors had already left for the school year, and the juniors were preparing to step up, walking around the school in decorated crowns and wearing all black. The first few classes of the day were wonky because of end-of-year testing, so some of my students were coming by during lunch to say goodbye for the year.An announcement came over the loudspeaker asking juniors to meet under a large tree on campus for a group picture commemorating their step up to their senior year. That’s when things went south.

Police Responded and Swarmed With a Violent Altercation

The classroom I was in was slightly underground and treated with hurricane-proof windows, so I didn’t hear any of the commotion until a substitute teacher came into my room. “Hi, they told me to come here and hide,” she said. “They said we were under code red.”Outside, where the students were taking their group picture, all chaos was breaking out. A white work van crashed into a tree outside the school, crushing a golf cart in the process. Before anyone could even check on the driver, he was on his way into the school, rushing past the principal and heading to the performing arts building. “This is a code red. This is not a drill. Run,” my students told me, just as they were told. By this point, cops were already on campus, trying to find the man, and he was rushing around the performing arts building—running, hiding or whatever he was doing. One of my students was even chased by him as he tried to get into the room my student was in. It all came to a head when, after what cops described as a “violent altercation,” an off-duty officer shot the man in the performing arts hall, ending his life.

An off-duty officer shot the man in the performing arts hall, ending his life.

The Perpetrator Was an Unarmed Black Man With Mental Health Issues

After the code red was lifted, police took to the scene to investigate the crime, and students were evacuated. Before I even had all of the information, I was already conflicted. I’m generally the type to believe that lethal force is something that should be avoided at nearly all costs. But at the same time, my students—kids who I care incredibly deeply for—were in danger, and it almost felt like a mother bear instinct came over me.My students were terrified. I hugged one of them. Another couldn’t stop crying. My morals about the importance of life and living felt as malleable as they’ve probably ever felt. Then, more information about what happened came out. First things first: The trespasser was unarmed when he was killed at the hands of police, which, on its own, is already problematic. He was also a Black man, which, in the current American climate, brings an air of suspicion to anything cop-involved. Next, the man was checked into a hospital the night before for mental health concerns, where he was let out just a few hours later, around midnight. Finally, the man was an alumnus of the school. He broke in and went straight to the performing arts building because that was familiar to him. It’s where he felt safe. When I got the full perspective, heard some of the man’s friends speak on his behalf and remembered the fear in my student’s eyes, I just laid down on my floor and cried.

My students were terrified.

The Experience Led to a Range of Emotions and Pinpointed Our Failures

As I wrote before, I started writing this before Buffalo and before Uvalde. I was going to write about the mental health crisis in America and how we criminally underserve the people who need it most. I was going to highlight how consistently we fail our Black and brown citizens on the most basic levels. Then, I saw the Buffalo shooter walk out in handcuffs. Then, I saw police sitting outside of a school while children were being murdered. And a man just seeking help came out in a body bag. It’s hard to describe what I feel, whether that be rage, sadness, hopelessness or some Frankenstein’s monster of the three.At that moment, my students were fearing for their lives. Barricading doors, looking for weapons, stuffing themselves into lockers looking for safety. They were traumatized before they even knew what was happening around them. I feared for my own safety and had that small nagging thought in the back of my head: “Is this real? Is this going to end up like Parkland, like Sandy Hook?” The fact that we have to even question our safety in some of the places that should be the absolute safest sits firmly in my mind.Instead, we ended up with another cop killing an unarmed Black man and a population of students already exhausted from spending their formative years in COVID-19 starting their senior year fearing for their lives.

For a very long time, I knew that I did not want to be a high-flying lawyer in a corporate law firm. That life was not designed for a person like me. It wasn’t designed for a woman. It wasn’t designed for a Black person. It wasn’t designed for an immigrant. And it wasn’t designed for a Black woman who is an immigrant. Until recently, I had spent my career working in a swanky office in London. My days were spent reviewing and drafting long corporate documents and waiting for the clock to strike five so that I could dash out of the sliding glass doors and into the busy streets. Some days, I had to work into the early hours of the morning, fighting the urge to fall asleep. But it wasn’t the long hours nor the boring tasks that were killing my spirit—it was the people I had to interact and work with on a daily basis.For starters, my accent confused my colleagues. I could see the question forming in their minds before I had completed my sentences: “Where are you from?” I dreaded recounting the tale of how far I had come, not because I wasn’t proud of how hard my people had worked to give me a shot at this coveted life but because I knew the person on the other side had no appreciation for the journey I had taken and the road I had traveled. My story would be wasted on them. My colleagues stumbled over my foreign name. I guess the Anglo-Saxon tongue is not used to forming sounds around consecutive consonants. So every time I encountered a new colleague, I always smiled and said ever so politely, “I know, it’s a difficult name, so I am happy to repeat it as many times as you would like.” Both these statements were lies. So many times, I wished my mother had given me a plain-Jane name—like Jane. That way, I could sign off my corporate emails with, “Kind regards, Jane,” and the receiving party would be none the wiser. My cover would not be blown. That way, I could hide in the plainness of all the sameness. As quickly as I thought that, I would feel a little pang of guilt as I remembered my grandmother. She is the one I am named after. She is the one whose legacy I carry on.

My story would be wasted on them.

My Law Firm Was Filled With Predators From the African Savanna

Oftentimes, the office felt like the African savanna, and I felt like a caged animal, watched and preyed upon by colleagues higher in the food chain. At the top were the lions. Most of them were bloodthirsty and chasing the high that came with closing the next deal. They went to expensive dinners and popped champagne bottles after closing their multimillion-dollar deals, all the while slapping each other’s backs and congratulating themselves on earning even more money that would most likely be spent on alimony checks. The lionesses were the worst, in my opinion. They had spent all their lives climbing to the top of the food chain, forsaking all else, and in the process, having to prove how competent and brave they were. It’s always the ones who must prove themselves the most who end up cannibalizing their young. Next in line were the wildebeests. They were many in number and sheeplike in nature. They found comfort in numbers. It seemed to me that they were aware that if they strayed too far from the rest of the herd, they would become the lion’s dinner. So they moved in packs. They worked hard and partied harder. They seemed to think that if they all made the same mistakes, they would be spared the intensity of the pain of their terrible decisions. However, each one had to carry his or her own cross. The long hours, wild nights and few higher spots would necessarily mean that most of them would never make it to the top of the food chain. It also meant that for some of them, the juice wasn’t worth the squeeze. The antelopes were divine and graceful but still a part of the madness that came with living in the savanna. They tended to be the friendliest and the most understanding, as not very long ago, they had been newbies as well. They put in the effort and worked very hard to appease all their superiors. A part of me could see myself becoming an antelope, but I was skeptical that it was a sustainable plan, for the antelopes were still prey. I learned very early on that in the savanna plains, there is no karma—there is only luck. Then came my group: the little warthogs. Think Pumbaa from The Lion King. We were furtive, hungry and would scurry at the sight of danger. We knew where we stood in the pecking order and so we kept our heads down and hoped not to be noticed. After all, everyone kept telling us how grateful we should be for making it to such a highly ranked corporate law firm. Nobody spoke of how lucky the firm was that we worked there. For what is a firm of lawyers without the lawyers?

I Realized That Law Firm Life Wasn’t for Me

I just wanted to blend in, but I couldn’t. The other animals wouldn’t let me. I could feel their lingering looks when I was seated at my desk. I felt their gaze when I wore my natural hair out. I saw their faces scrunch up when I spoke up in my peculiar accent. I could tell that they knew that I knew that they didn’t think I was a good “culture fit” for the firm. Whatever that meant. What they didn’t know was that I was beginning to realize that this firm life was not for me either. The touted prosperity was for conformists and sadists, and I was neither. I didn’t want to sacrifice my sanity at the altar of perceived prosperity. I didn’t want to be haunted by the cackling of bloodthirsty hyenas in my sleep. I didn’t like that I spent all my hard-earned money on “smart” suits to keep me camouflaged, and on alcohol to dull my senses around uninteresting colleagues at happy hour. I didn’t like that every day was a fight to prove that I deserved to stay at the firm. I didn’t like that cutthroat culture took away my light and ambition. You see, I have always been ambitious. I have always been studious. Since I can remember, I have enjoyed reading and studying. But in that savanna, my fight to survive used up so much of my energy that I couldn’t spare any to ensure that I was thriving. I could feel the vultures circling.

Then the pandemic hit, and I was set free.

I Took Back My Power and Freedom During the Pandemic

It was at this point that I decided that the accolades, champagne, suits and perceived prosperity were not for me. I took off and ran. I didn’t know where I was running to, but I knew that it had to be better than the wasteland that is corporate law in London. I left the city, changed jobs and changed focus areas by joining a company that specialized in a different area of law. What seemed from the outside like a downsizing of ambitions and plans was a pivot to doing work in an environment tailored to me. Then the pandemic hit, and I was set free. I could sit behind a computer and advise clients as I wore my hair in Bantu knots. Their gaze could no longer affect me because my body was not physically available to them. They could no longer judge me for my accent when my questions were typed out on Slack. And if they did, I couldn’t see it in their faces. I no longer needed to fry my hair in an attempt to keep it bone straight for the sake of “professionalism.” I took time out to read my books and learn the law in the quiet of my home office, just as I remember doing in my childhood bedroom at my parent’s house. I began to remember what it was like to be myself. My uncorrupted self. I began to remember what it was like to be free. So I would like to join in with everyone who says the pandemic changed them. Unashamedly, it has let me live in my truth—it stripped my life to the bare minimum and made space for my uncorrupted self. It allowed me to lawyer in my pajamas. It doesn’t make me any worse of a lawyer. What it does do, however, is allow me to thrive in a non-hostile work environment. The physical space that I now occupy at work is for me, designed by me. A woman. A Black person. An immigrant. A Black woman who is an immigrant.

I moved to London in 2019 for work. I was single and thought it would be the best place for me to restart my life in my 30s. It felt like the universe had handed me a pen to start writing my story on a blank page, a new chapter waiting to be filled in. At first, everything was new, different. The city seemed bursting with possibility, and I was determined to make the most of it.

It felt like someone decided to fast-forward my life and we were suddenly living like two 80-year-olds.

I Quickly Found Out My New Partner and I Had Nothing in Common

Right before the pandemic shook the very ground we stood in, I met someone who ticked a lot of the boxes in my mind. A gentleman, respectful, kind, sweet, reliable, made me feel safe. We went out on a few dates before everything shut down and life as we knew it drastically changed. Dating before 2020 would have meant eating out, doing activities, going places, exploring common interests (or creating new ones), flirting, dressing up, seeing the city together. Dating during the pandemic meant hanging out at home, doing puzzles, drinking tea, reading the newspaper in the morning, watching movies and going out for long (sometimes quiet) walks. That’s all fine, but it felt like someone decided to fast-forward my life and we were suddenly living like two 80-year-olds. There was no excitement, no drama, nothing interesting. But I thought to myself: You should be grateful you have company during this difficult time. And so I was grateful to have company during that difficult time. As the months went by, I realized we had nothing in common, but also nothing bad happened and it was comfortable. We come from very different cultures, and that definitely required some adjustment. I had been used to metaphorically eating spicy food and suddenly I was eating bland mashed potatoes. Previous relationships have included intense and explosive personalities, which felt like indulging in an exotic menu but always ending up with a stomachache. In matters of love, I have not always made the wisest choices, so I convinced myself to try something different, to see if I would get different results. Maybe my feelings would develop gradually.I knew from the start I felt bored, but I wanted to blame it on the pandemic and restrictions. However, things are nearly back to normal now and I am still so bored that I sometimes prefer to just be by myself. I have more fun hiding at home watching Schitt’s Creek, eating popcorn and texting with friends back home. When I go out for coffee in the mornings, I find myself daydreaming that I will bump into a stranger and it will be like an electric shock that brings me back to life and it will all click. As I walk, smiling, I imagine our first date, the laughter and the magnetic conversation and feel like I already miss the person after that chance encounter. Then, it starts to rain and I remember where I am.

When facing important life decisions, I always seem to freeze.

I Am Always Questioning Whether I’m Making the Right Decision to Stay

So why don’t I just break up? Why don’t I just end things and look for something different? My internal dialogues go on and on. They even turn into heated debates. One side says, “Don’t settle. You are still young enough to start over again and look for someone new. You have felt chemistry before, and you deserve to have that again.” The other side replies, “You’re in your mid-30s. You’re running out of time if you want to have kids. Plus, you’ve had chemistry before, and that wasn’t enough, so count your blessings. You have a good guy; don’t mess it up.” Then, the other side argues, “Right, he may be a great man, but that doesn’t mean he’s the right one for you. You are not in love, and it’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to him.” To which the other side answers, “Dating is scary. The streets are full of crazy people out there; it is a lot of trial and a lot of error. Chasing chemistry is a pointless treasure hunt. It’s thrilling, but so what? Every long-term couple you know says the same thing: There are more important things than chemistry to make a relationship work. And what is chemistry anyway?”When facing important life decisions, I always seem to freeze. Analysis paralysis. So much overthinking. Every big decision triggers a fear of what could go wrong, sending me into a risk-management mindset where I eventually end up making decisions about love with my brain instead of my heart. “First world problems,” I tell myself to minimize my feelings. “You’ve been in bad relationships. You’ve been with a toxic person. You’ve been ghosted, disrespected, hurt. You’ve watched The Tinder Swindler. You couldn’t even finish season two of You on Netflix because it made you paranoid. Remember your friends’ awful dating stories. You also know it’s not easy to find a good guy, and when you do, you don’t like him?” This makes me feel guilty, like a horrible human being. So I try my best to be nice and romantic to compensate, but deep down, I am holding back, as if I am saving the best version of myself for someone I haven’t even met. And so time passes like the inevitable flow of a river. And I am sitting on a boat with another person, watching the scenery in a slow ride that feels pointless. I finally have someone who is there for me, who is stable, supportive and emotionally mature. Yes, it does feel like we are an old retired couple who are content with having a very calm life. But he seems satisfied with that—shouldn’t I?

What's your purpose? Why are you here? Those are questions that a typical college freshman might ask themselves before picking a major. So why, at age 31, am I asking myself these same questions? Is it a midlife crisis? I hope not. I do believe I have another 50 years in me on this earth, but who knows; we can talk about climate change in a different article. I’ve never felt like I’ve known my purpose in life. The search for one has left a trail of domain names, courses, jobs and journal entries behind me. It's been an exhausting journey, doing so many things to get to no particular destination, but it’s been fun. First, I went to college and graduated with a science degree in communications. Then, I got a job running the marketing department for a big beef company before deciding I was vegan; I then shifted to be a copywriter for a nonprofit. I even worked for a remote company as a digital manager before the whole remote work thing was a thing. I didn’t know what I was meant to do, but I did know being stuck in a dimly lit cubicle drinking stale coffee was not the vibe for my life, so I started my own copywriting business. And I killed it: I hit my financial goals; clients were pouring in; and I finally had freedom of time. But it didn't feel right, so I decided to keep trying new things. I even got a yoga teacher certificate, although I still haven’t ever taught a class.

I don't think I even have a direction.

Is 31 Too Old for Birth Charts and BuzzFeed Career Quizzes?

And now here I am at age 31, working random writing gigs and floating around on the internet, Googling "find my purpose quiz" and pouring over human design charts, horoscopes and anything else that might point me in the right direction. But to be honest with you, I don't think I even have a direction. I think that the road trip of my life was meant to have a shit ton of detours. I think that if I tried to zoom in on the final destination, there just wouldn't be one. And it took me a lot of time to sit with that; OK, maybe it's been like a month. But if you couldn't tell, sitting still is hard for me. And I sort of blame my kindergarten teacher. Don't get me wrong, Mrs. Rittenhouse was a nice teacher and all, but asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up at age 5 has given me a lifelong complex of feeling like something is wrong with me for simply not knowing the answer. And it got me thinking, why do we do that to kids? Why are we conditioning them to believe that their whole reason for being here is to pick a career? Can we blame it on consumerism? Can we blame it on the school system being built to produce workers? I mean, I have spent my entire adult life trying to find my purpose, and because of the way I was educated, conditioning attached my purpose to a career. What the fuck is that? A job can't be my reason for existence on this planet. I refuse to believe that because that's really fucking boring.

Our Work Shouldn’t Define Us

So if you are reading this, just know you are more than a resume. Your purpose doesn't have to be tied to your career. Sure, I am grateful for doctors who decided saving lives is their life calling. But I am also grateful to know now that sometimes your purpose on this planet can be that you don't have one. Maybe some of us are meant to float around, try new things, shake shit up, have some fun. Maybe not having a purpose is an awakening, a release for the soul to freely exist in a way that is not tied only to consumerism and this weird nine-to-five construct we have created in this world.Maybe I’m not the misfit; maybe the career-oriented are. Or maybe I just tell myself these things to justify the fact that I started a podcast this week and, who knows, maybe that will be my thing for now. But regardless of the answer, I can tell you this: The day I decided I didn't want to have a purpose was the most freeing day of my life. It took off the pressure. It gave me permission to freely try new things, to remove the identity of being wishy-washy or inconsistent. It gave me the freedom to fail. I don't fear failure. If anything, I fear being stuck.

A job can't be my reason for existence on this planet. I refuse to believe that because that's really fucking boring.

I Don’t Have the Answers, and Maybe That’s How It Should Be

So if you are Googling "what is my purpose" and ended up on this article, I’m sorry I can’t give you the answer because honestly, I don't think there is one. I think many of us are waking up and realizing that we can honestly do whatever we want until we decide we want to do something else. And if that's you, congratulations: You are living a free as fuck life that will make zero sense to anyone around you. But who cares? Living for others is probably what got us all into this mess in the first place. So the moral of this confession of a digital nomad is simply this: Not having a purpose is a purpose. Maybe you can wrap your head around that one; I'm still trying. But not having all the answers is what makes life fun. It's still an adventure, so use that as your muse. Now that I officially quit my business and am just floating out in the void, you might wonder (OK, maybe I wonder, too), what's next? And my answer to that question is I have no fucking clue. But that's sort of the whole point. I refuse to spend any more time trying to figure it out. I’m just going to follow my excitement. Being a Pilates instructor is looking kinda cool. Maybe I’ll try that next.

Relationships with any parent or guardian are difficult. There are so many reasons to fall out: differences in opinions, double standards, lack of understanding. It's natural. As we get older, we begin to appreciate our parents’ decisions more. We now see where the dangers were or why something may not have been appropriate. We sometimes even end up being exactly like our parents. But as I got older and began looking back on my childhood, I didn't appreciate my parents more. I started resenting them. Then, I moved halfway across the world to get away from them.

I moved halfway across the world to get away from them.

My Parents Felt I Was a Disappointment If I Didn’t Perform at My Best

As a child, I thought I was pretty mellow, and if my parents said no to something, fuck it, they said no. I really couldn't waste time arguing, and the ratio of yes to no was usually in my favor. In hindsight, I realized that the reason there were so few arguments was that I was too scared to challenge them, and anything I did ask for was met with, “If you want it, you need to work hard for it.”For example, when I was 14, I badly wanted my belly button pierced. But to get that piercing, I had to work my ass off in math for a year and get promoted to a higher class. In the U.K., we combine all mathematics into one subject. We are also placed into groups depending on our ability. I was in the second group, and my dad couldn't stand it. As terrible as I was at math, the second group was something I thought I could be proud of. So I only asked for something that I knew I deeply wanted and prepared myself for months of hard work. As a general rule, if I wasn't performing at my best and obeying orders, I was a massive disappointment, and there was no reason for reward. My success and discipline saw my parents commended for their top-notch parenting. Little did they know that 10 years down the line, I would be living with anxiety, have a crippling need to please people and never fully commit to something because I was a perfectionist and too scared to fail.Don't get me wrong, this type of parenting isn't unusual. I guess it was the standard at that time. And to add a layer of confusion to my childhood, my parents are lovely people. Mom loved good gossip and going shopping. Dad loved that I wasn't a girly girl and had an adventurous side. I happily told anyone who would listen that my parents were awesome. They were young; they were social; and they were fashionable. I was always physically safe, and there was always food to eat. We did fun things together. There are millions of people who dream of having parents like mine, which is why I love them. But now that I'm older, I realize I really don't like them. I no longer enjoy spending time with them. I keep my life separate from them because I can't deal with their judgment or opinions. I try to spend as little time with them as possible. Our values and norms are just too different now.

I try to spend as little time with them as possible.

Growing Up, My Family Enforced Gender Stereotypes

My parents are only 16 years older than me. So I think our disconnect is less of a generational thing and more a result of their upbringing combined with mine and some resentment because my life is easier than theirs.Mom had two sisters and lived in a very traditional setting. Dad grew up with five other siblings in Belfast in the 1980s with a very Catholic mother. Between them, they have a lot of unresolved issues and childhood trauma. They also grew up when emotional trauma was not discussed or treated. Today, we have a relationship where 95 percent of our conversations end in arguments.These arguments are either because my mom is too passive and lets my dad and younger brother walk all over her (my dad is a sexist fuck) or they refuse to see any other viewpoint. Our most recent falling out happened because my dad didn't want to hire a female dog trainer. Heaven forbid a specialist and trained woman should advise him on how to teach his German shepherd to heel. Being a woman trying to succeed in a male-dominated industry myself, this irked me and made me rethink my childhood chores and responsibilities. It turns out, my parents enforced the stereotypical gender norms in our house to the point where they still expect me to do my brother's laundry when he comes to visit—which he only does when he's in the city for a concert or rave. My TV time was even given to my brother because, as my father would say, “There must be more important things for you to do, like help your mother around the house.” Yes, at 13 years old, I should be spending my downtime helping with the laundry or finding more homework.

I Wish I Could Spend Time With My Parents, but They Refuse to Accept Me

They constantly belittled my career, referring to my freelancing as “not a proper job” and refusing to believe that I worked hard because I spend most of the day in my pajamas or sweats. They think because I had one bad relationship and lost some money in the split, I’m a bad decision maker and terrible at looking after myself. They absolutely refuse to sympathize or even try to relate to me. They love telling me how proud they are of my brother for joining the military and buying his first house at 23. They lie when people ask them what I do for a living. In their world, I am not a digital content strategist and creator; I am working in the marketing department of some company. They practically died of happiness when they thought I moved back to the U.K. because I failed to live in Dubai—I didn't; I just got sick of living there. The spring and summer months were getting far too long and hot. They think being a parent is transactional and always find the time to tell me that I owe them a holiday home and expect extravagant gifts “for all the things [they've] done” for me. They certainly contributed to the person I am today. I'm just not sure I'm thankful for it. They made me; then, I had to unmake me. Now they don't get me.I'm stuck. I feel guilty for not spending time with my parents because I might regret it when they pass, but I’m actively doing everything I can to avoid them because I despise every conversation I have with them. Parents: the pioneers of difficult and confusing relationships. Of course, I’d love to have a relationship with them. I’d love nothing more than for them to be a part of my life because quite frankly, my life is epic. Just not at the expense of my well-being.One of the reasons I love my life is because of the boundaries I created. Letting them in just because they’re my parents is not a good enough reason. Sadly, I don’t see them resolving their issues or changing their perspectives anytime soon. But hopefully, they start to see how happy I am, and instead of being jealous or judgmental, they accept what is and finally tell me they’re proud of me.

The first time that everything really clicked was in the chair of my therapist’s office. I was sharing a childhood experience that I’ve always felt a lot of reverence for: I was around 8 or 9 years old, and my mom and I were squatting in my grandma’s foreclosed condo. I didn’t really know what was happening at the time; all I knew was that I was hungry and bored. The fridge was becoming more and more barren by the day—until one day, there was nothing left. The details are foggy as to what happened next, but I know that I ended up going three days without food. Looking back at that experience, I’d always felt a sense of pride in our perseverance—my mom and me versus the world. That was until my therapist looked at me, concerned, and brought that idea crashing down. “There were ways for her to feed you without money,” he said. “She failed you there.”

When the lockdown hit, I lost my job.

The Poverty Mindset Was Ingrained in Me From Childhood

By the time I started having these kinds of earth-shattering breakthroughs, I was already in my sophomore year of college. I had my own apartment, a few thousand dollars saved up and a job as a bartender-slash-server, making enough money to cover anything I needed in my early 20s. But even though I was far removed from the destitution of my childhood, I still lived every day like I was right in the middle of it. Looking back, I was lucky then.I don’t want to overstate the COVID-19 impact. The pandemic has affected us all greatly, and to dig into it would be just rehashing a nearly three-year-long conversation at this point. I’m only bringing this up because I can blame a lot of where I’m at now on the pandemic and what it did to my life and finances. When we first started hearing rumblings about COVID, the tourist season in my town was still in full swing. I was making money hand over fist at the bar. I had also invested a few thousand dollars in Tesla stock in 2019, and it was about to take off. My stock portfolio rose by over 1,000 percent over the next year and a half. In March of 2020, I was the most secure financially I had ever been. I was nearly done with my bachelor’s degree; I had a steady gig; and I had almost 20 grand in my stock portfolio. When the lockdown hit, I lost my job. I couldn’t access my unemployment account, stuck behind the hundreds of thousands of people. And when I was able to access my account, I already started a job at a grocery store to make ends meet, so I didn’t qualify for the benefits anymore. While I started burning through my savings, I also decided to move the money I had in stable, well-performing stock to much higher-risk, higher-reward stocks. Those high-risk stocks absolutely tanked. I bought in at nearly $26 a share, and they fell all the way to $6. I lost nearly 11 grand. By the time my lease was up in March of 2021, I wasn’t able to afford my apartment anymore and had to move back in with my family. A year or so later, I’m still just barely keeping my head above water and trying to get back on my feet. And since then, I’ve come to understand a lot of the systems in place and started seeing things that never stuck out to me, even when my life was substantially harder.

Being Poor Gets Really Expensive

One thing is that when you lose your job and have no other reliable source of income, your credit cards become lifelines. A parasitic relationship forms. Then, as interest starts racking up, you start doing everything you can to keep your balance under control. Even if you start making money again, you still have to find a way to pay down those cards, and you often find yourself throwing money into the void just to keep your balance under control. That’s where I found myself at the start of this. Before moving back in with my family, I was stretching my credit cards thin just to pay my bills. By the time I moved back in with my family, my interest had started kicking in. I considered my financial options and sought out advice from friends, family and my bank. Some of the most common suggestions were debt transfer credit cards and personal loans—the former to move my debt to a lower-interest card, and the latter to consolidate my debt in one fell swoop with a more manageable interest payment. Over a period of about three months, I applied for nearly 15 debt transfer cards and five personal loans and was denied by every single one. I was rarely given a reason beyond my credit or current taxable income. Apparently, I could afford a $200-a-month interest payment, but I couldn’t handle $100 a month to pay down a loan—or at least that’s how the banks saw it. Obviously, that’s anecdotal, but these types of systems exist all over. The standard nine-to-five workday, for example. Most important businesses, like doctors' offices, banks and auto shops, are open from nine to five, when most of the general working population is stuck at work. If you’re lucky, you might have the choice to take off work, but potentially miss out on a day’s pay. Or if they’re open on the weekend, you’ll be stuck behind all the other nine-to-five workers who couldn’t make it during the week.According to a 2020 Pew Research study, about half of lower-income households in America faced wage loss due to COVID-19, and with service jobs reeling from the pandemic, young workers are expected to deal with the worst fallout from this economic upheaval. As a whole, 61 percent of American consumers are living paycheck to paycheck. Something like a traffic ticket can be earth-shatteringly bad for some of these people, including myself—one $80 ticket may be the difference between being able to fully feed yourself that week or not. And now that I’m finally starting to climb out of the hole that I’ve fallen into over the past few years, I’m coming back with a lot of perspective. The things that I dealt with, primarily as a child, are coming back to light in my adult eyes, framed by my experience and understanding. Things that would have otherwise fallen by the wayside have come back to the forefront of my mind, and all the anxiety that comes with it.

I’m not doing well, but I’m also not destitute.

After Being Up, Then Down, Finding Middle Ground Feels Good

When I was a teenager, I became incredibly familiar with the taste of buttered pasta meals. They were cheap, filling and plentiful. We could always scratch together the five bucks for a box of pasta shells, even if we couldn’t get gas. But when I was 21, I had enough to eat incredibly well each week, trying new recipes nearly every day. My mom used to always back our mothball-flooded Ford Explorer into her parking spots. If anyone started getting a little too close to the car, I saw her get incredibly anxious. I now know that was because she was watching for people that may repo her car. She was hiding the plate and making it hard to tow. She couldn’t afford the lease anymore, but we still needed transportation. Just after the pandemic started, and I wasn’t burning money yet, my shitbox Ford Taurus died, and I bought a new car the same day. Now I find myself in a weird middle ground. I’m bringing in enough money to have a little savings but not nearly as much as I did before. I’m not doing well, but I’m also not destitute. The ebb and flow finally feel like it has found a middle ground. Instead of being dictated by luck, good or bad, my life feels like it’s just passing now, and the things ahead are in my hands.

Time and I have always had a tenuous love-hate relationship. Like many of my colleagues, I’ve measured my life by the clock, and my happiness has been in no small part dependent on how productive I am day by day. Yet recently, I’ve realized the fatal error of this mentality. I recognized that I was caught up in "the cult of speed," which was the trigger for me to take pause, take stock and reassess my life after being in the workforce for a quarter-century.In recent years, I’d found myself experiencing a general malaise about work, life and everything in between. By the week's end, I was left drained and more than a little demoralized. Even worse, on Sunday nights, anticipating of the week ahead, I was so highly strung about returning to another Groundhog Day week that I could barely sleep. So I drank a bottle (or two) of wine and prayed for even a moment's sleep. My prayers were rarely answered.I knew something had to change and that I alone was responsible for making that happen.So I bit the bullet and negotiated my role into that of a remote, part-time worker. Then I did the one thing that needed to happen if I was to give myself the best chance for a real-life "post cult": I packed up my house and bought a ticket to Estonia.

I became frustrated because the pace was too slow and my calendar was too clear.

I Got Frustrated When My New Lifestyle Became Too Slow

As a writer, I find that books often play both a practical and a poetic role in my life. They inspire me to action, and likewise impel me to seek more adventurous paths—intellectually, morally and physically. After rereading Tim Ferriss’s New York Times bestseller The 4-Hour Workweek, I was (I admit somewhat naively) emboldened that Estonia was indeed the panacea that would help me reclaim my life as my own. I worked in new media; they were famous for it. Within days of arriving in Tallinn, I discovered the hard way how badly I’d bought into our cultural predilection and esteem for being productive and constantly connected. All too quickly, I became frustrated because the pace was too slow and my calendar was too clear.Looking back, nothing could have prepared me for the "barrage of me," the moment the clock’s hold over me waned. I found that days once filled with a seemingly endless stream of tasks demanding my attention—days that, all too often, stretched into weeks and months—suddenly became quieter, simpler. But this silence became deafening.The first sign that there was trouble in paradise was when I noticed a nagging self-doubt had surfaced. A new inner voice emerged; it asked me: What was I doing wrong? What had I achieved today? Did I still offer any real value? Was I doing the right thing?I began to fear quiet moments.

The Overwhelming Free Time Allowed Me to Appreciate the Small Parts of Life

I’ve had a 20-year love affair with efficiency and speed. Every time I had a quiet moment for reflective thought, I almost immediately avoided it by escaping to my mobile devices. So, as many of us do, the first thing I did when I found myself doubting my life choices was to overcompensate. I discovered, much like a recently released prisoner, just how much I crave structure, the safety of routine, the known—even if it’s tedious enough to make you flee your home country. I filled my calendar with little tasks—minor missions to accomplish—just to have the satisfaction of ticking off another item on my to-do list. At the same time, I noticed that small things took on near-epic proportions. My recently overextended brain went into overdrive trying to fill the void, seeking distractions. The truth is, the sheer volume of free time is almost as overwhelming. Almost.But something interesting happened between the nagging inner voices and the time wasted fussing over small things. I started appreciating small moments: The way you’re pulled out of your head by the feel of snow against your skin as you cross the street; the taste of different foods in a country on the opposite side of the planet; wandering down quiet, uncluttered city streets.As enough time passes—after you experience a few of these moments of fleeting happiness—you begin to let the voices in. You hear them, and then you start to challenge them. When I started the journey, I was awaking around 6 a.m. and realizing I didn’t have anything particular to get up for.The thought was simply terrifying.The same thing happened this week, but this time, I laughed and let the thought go.

We’ve inadvertently become a species that needs to be constantly distracted and entertained, almost as if we fear confronting our own realities.

Being Unplugged Takes a Strong Effort, but It Can Be Worth It

Living a simpler, unplugged, four-hour workweek lifestyle has turned out to be a blessing and a curse. It’s forced me to stop and listen to the voices that are far darker than I could have imagined. Voices that are deeply rooted in a Western mindset that does not favor quiet introspection. Yet these very same voices—these softly spoken doubts that result from our ingrained mindset of being focused and productive—reveal the inherent flaw in our thinking.We’ve become a hyperfocused species, yet our point of focus tends to be external.Too often our attention is focused on something "out there," with our attention turned toward someone, some goal or something outside of ourselves. Similarly, we’re so focused on the return we get from the investment of our time—on our productivity—that we’re fundamentally blind to the benefits of the moment and the inherent value of downtime.We’ve inadvertently become a species that needs to be constantly distracted and entertained, almost as if we fear confronting our own realities. Yet if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time away, it’s that there’s immense joy in being unplugged and spending time disconnected.Those considering the nomad life need to be aware that it won’t always be comfortable or easy. But what would you give to have the opportunity to discover a quiet place within you that is yours and yours alone? I gave up an entire life, and I think the price I paid was fair.

I am a half-Kashmiri, half-English woman. But when people inevitably ask me where I’m from or question the origin of my very non-English-sounding name, my response often leads to blank expressions. Perhaps you also are staring at the screen now with that same blank expression: Where is Kashmir and why does it matter? I don’t blame you for wondering; Kashmir has been hidden from sight, and it's an identity that is quickly being erased.Let me give you a brief history lesson to help explain. During the Indian partition of 1947, the British withdrawal led to a relentless struggle over Kashmiri land. Existing as it does in such a crucial geopolitical position in the northernmost point of India, and previously known as the "jewel in the crown of India," neither India nor Pakistan were willing to cede the Muslim-majority territory. So after the first of two wars over the region, Kashmir was split between both countries. Maintaining possession of Indian-administered Kashmir has been an obsession for India ever since.This obsession has taken form in the shape of violence over the land and the people. The Indian armed forces roam every street corner; curfews infringe on everyday living; dissent is persistently squashed. Most recently, Kashmir was stripped of its statehood (which gave Kashmiris exclusive land rights, a separate constitution and the right to make its own laws) without any consideration of Kashmiri voices. In fact, any voice speaking out about Kashmir is often actively silenced or quickly fades from public view. And now, effectively stateless, we are being dissolved into the wider Indian population.Kashmiris have a strong sense of identity, distinct from both India and Pakistan. My sisters and I have inherited our father’s Kashmiri pride, which is why we often choose to call ourselves Kashmiri rather than Indian. Tired of being simply a trading card or an object to be fought over, Kashmiris have continually cried out for recognition and justice. After all, you would think the most militarized region in the world would garner a bit more international attention. That’s right, Kashmir is the most militarized region in the world. But why does it feel like no one cares? Do I even have a right to care?

Kashmir has been hidden from sight, and it's an identity that is quickly being erased.

Is My Kashmiri Experience Valid?

Kashmir is everywhere in my family’s home. The curtains and cushions are made from Kashmiri-embroidered material; the pictures on the walls were captured by my mother and document the stunning beauty of the mountains and lakes; Kashmiri carpets cover our floors and hang as tapestries on the walls; an intricate mini-replica of the hand-carved wooden houseboat of my dad’s family business sits on a bookshelf. We grew up playing carrom, a board game that lives behind our sitting room door, on a 74 by 74 centimeter board that my dad carried back from Kashmir, and we ate our dinner as children sitting on a Kashmiri floor mat. Despite this little Kashmir we created, it's not actually Kashmir. This home is nestled in the heart of London, far away from the land and family of my father. I can’t speak Kashmiri; I didn’t grow up surrounded by mountains or working on the family houseboat; and I am not a Muslim. I am Kashmiri but have never directly experienced the violence that has been inflicted upon almost every Kashmiri since 1947. I feel a strange mixture of fortune and guilt at that fact. I have increasingly questioned my own identity and the role I should play in speaking out. Can I claim my Kashmiri identity if I’ve never fully known the Kashmiri experience? Does my being mixed-race mean my Kashmiri identity will disappear even more quickly? On the few occasions we have been able to go back and spend time with my family, I felt like my cousins treated my sisters and me differently. We always showered one another with love, but we could never escape the fact that we were their cousins "from the West." There is a collective belonging that develops from shared experience, especially painful experience. And we haven’t shared in our cousins’ painful experiences of growing up and living in a conflict zone.I am not saying I want to, and it would be inauthentic of me to claim that I understand that kind of struggle. I am ever grateful to have been sheltered from that pain and recognize my great fortune. But it does mean I am distanced somehow from that shared identity. Then, at the same time, how can I deny my identity? Ignoring my Kashmiri identity would be like severing my connection with my beloved father. It would be like pretending that I don’t have the fairer skin tones and odd red hairs that are typical of Kashmiri heritage. Or ignoring the many times I have been told that I look like my father or share the same oval-shaped face as Mama, my dad’s mother. It would be equally inauthentic to not claim the truth of this. And being in the U.K., I am also in a unique position to actually be able to speak out about Kashmir, an opportunity many Kashmiris suffer for trying to obtain.

Can I claim my Kashmiri identity if I’ve never fully known the Kashmiri experience?

Witnessing Violence to Draw Attention

Another reason I could never deny my Kashmiri identity is due to the things I have experienced that are uniquely Kashmiri. During the 2019 Kashmir lockdown (yes, lockdowns were a thing for people even before COVID-19), the country's communications blackout meant we worried for weeks whether our family was OK; I wonder whether it will be curfews or lack of money that will stop my cousins from going to school. I have witnessed the effort and struggle of my parents as they strive to financially support our Kashmiri family, and I have seen the agony on my dad’s face as he listens to his siblings describe how hopeless they feel. This is not an essay, so I haven’t given you my theories on why the plight of Kashmiris at the hands of the Indian government is so ignored and seemingly disregarded by the international community. But another reason why I claim my Kashmiri identity is because of the anger I feel at the injustice of it all. This anger stems from a deep-rooted feeling of belonging. It drives me to speak out in a way that I don’t often (but definitely should) speak about so many other unjust situations in our world. Witnessing violence is crucial in drawing attention and recognition to a disappearing people. But remembering we are all whole individuals in the midst of this is of equal or maybe even more importance. None of us are entirely defined by our painful experiences. We are defined by how we continue to live in spite of, or maybe because of, them. I wouldn’t want you to walk away from reading this thinking Kashmiris are two-dimensional people shaped by violence and that's all. We experience pain and joy, as well as everything in between. My Kashmiri family struggles, yes. But part of struggle is choosing to exist in the everyday, normal moments when they happen, too. They still excitedly shout at the television when Pakistan plays India in cricket and dance when their children get married and take selfies and post them on social media and sing along to the songs from that latest Salman Khan film. I may not know Kashmiri struggle in the same way as many of my family members, but identity goes beyond borders. I see and feel their pain as well as the fullness of the Kashmiri identity. As a Kashmiri woman, I long for the world to do the same.

The Russian invasion of Ukraine is the first European war we’ve been able to follow in near real-time on social media. Soon after the conflict broke out, we connected on Reddit with a young Russian who’s part of the growing anti-war movement there. After verifying their identity, we conducted an interview with them about the situation as it stands in Russia.The following exchange has been edited for clarity and to correct grammatical errors.

Tell us about yourself. Where do you live? What do you do?

I'm a young adult from a big city near Ural. I work as a software engineer at an IT company. Also, I'm a part of the LGBT community.

What is your impression of how Russians feel towards the invasion of Ukraine? How much support is there for it? How much opposition?

A majority of Russians are against the war, but there are many people who support it, mostly the Soviet-era generation. Sadly, some of the anti-war people are against it only because they are afraid of sanctions and economic collapse.

I don't know anyone personally who really thinks that Russia and the West are enemies.

Is there nostalgia among older people for the Soviet era? Do you see young people who also want a return to those days?

I think that older people have nostalgia because they were young during Soviet times. They didn't know better. They used to live in a bipolar world where there are good and bad guys. And TV propaganda works well to support their ideology. There are also some young people who support Putin. Mostly, they are from poor families and also don't know any better.

Putin has worked very hard to bring back the old way of thinking of Russia and the West (and specifically Russia and the U.S.) as enemies. Do you feel like Russian people see things the same way? From what I’ve seen, young Russians are very into Western music, fashion and pop culture.

I don't know anyone personally who really thinks that Russia and the West are enemies. I know that there are some people who think this way, but mostly from the old generation.

Putin has described the invasion’s purpose as to “demilitarize” and “denazify” Ukraine. Do Russians believe this or support these goals? If not, what do you think his motivations really are?

Some Russians believe that the army is fighting "Ukrainian Nazis," but most of us know that this is bullshit and our crazy president just wants to play with tanks before he dies.

I know there aren’t many independent news organizations in Russia. What’s the news coverage out of Ukraine been like there? Do you get a sense that you are seeing anything real, or is it all propaganda?

We have some independent news. One of the biggest is Meduza. They try to make the most unbiased picture of this conflict. Also, I'm reading some Ukrainian news channels on Telegram. We can easily access any Western news site. They aren't blocked in Russia. I'm checking information about the conflict every hour.

I’ve seen news reports about Russians marching to protest the invasion. I know the Russian government has cracked down severely on protests in the past. Is that true? If so, what kind of risks are Russians taking by joining these protests? Have you taken part? Have you heard anything about people being arrested?

There were many protests in Russia against Putin in the past and protests against the war yesterday. In my city, we created a Telegram chat to organize it. [Last week] I was with a group of about 20 people. About half of this group were LGBT members. None of us were arrested, but there were also a series of solitary pickets on the other street, and about 10-15 people were arrested. Yesterday, I was at the protest again. There were 25-30 people in my group, and half were arrested. We just walked on the street with a banner. We had some support from passersby, but there were some people who swore at us. Also, we encountered a Donbas veteran, who tried to assault a woman from our group. Thankfully, the police in my city are not so brutal. None of us were physically assaulted, and all of us who were arrested were released later the same day. I'm really scared now. Not because of the police but because we don’t have many supporters here. Theoretically, protests can have some effect if there would be millions on the streets. Now there are hundreds at best. Russians are really scared. A major part of our opposition are imprisoned or have left the country.

Russians are really scared. A major part of our opposition are imprisoned or have left the country.

The protests in Russia have been small so far, but there were some big ones over the weekend in Germany, the U.S. and other places. Do you think they’ll have an effect on anything?

I don't think that protests in foreign countries can have a big effect on this situation.

Do you think Putin could be convinced, either by protests in Russia or sanctions from the West, to abandon the invasion? Or do you think he’d be willing to go to war with NATO if it came down to that?

I think that Putin may abandon invasion only if there would be too many casualties after urban fights. I hope that Ukraine will organize guerilla warfare. I don't think that protests can change Putin's mind. Nor do I think that Putin would start WW3 with NATO. That would be too crazy even for him.

What is your hope for how this conflict ends?

I don't think that this conflict can have a peaceful end. Europe should help Ukraine as much as possible with weapons, money and sanctions. I don't think that Putin wants another world war, but who knows? He is a lunatic who has lost all connection to the real world. I hope that someday Russia will be free.

It’s 1 o’clock at night and I can't sleep, even though I've been awake for 48 hours.I'm waiting for an emergency alarm that can ring at any point. And as soon as it does, we have to pack our things and run away to the nearest bunker as soon as possible. It’s no movie: It's really happening. It’s still unbelievable.There’s a lot of news. Some true, some fake, but both kinds are succeeding in scaring the shit out of us. It’s been 24 hours since the state of emergency has been declared in Ukraine. In a short period, a lot of things have happened. The airspace was closed. So we no longer can run away from here.

It’s no movie: It's really happening.

I Came Here to Study; Now I'm Afraid for My Life

I'm an Indian who came to Ukraine to study medicine. There are 18,000 Indians here like me. Some of them even booked a ticket to India right after the universities declared they would go online. But as the students reached Kyiv, they got stuck as the airspace was closed.Conditions are scarier in Kyiv than here, as it’s one of the main targets of the Russians. I'm living in the western part of Ukraine, which we thought would be relatively safe. But the Russians bombed an army base nearby. Since then, people here are panicking. We can't say for sure that we're safe. As soon as an emergency was declared, people got up at 5 a.m. to run to a supermarket to store food and to ATMs for cash. There was a huge line for anything and everything.Tonight, as we were about to rest, we noticed that the lights in the streets were off. After a while, we got the news that three Indian students were dead in Kharkiv. Kharkiv is close to the Russian border, so there is much more panic there than here. People are stuck in the metro stations. They can't go out. For the first time, I got really scared. I live in a hostel on the top floor. Right after hearing about the death of the fellow Indians, a boy came running to our room. He said, “Turn off the lights quickly and come to the bottom floor. If you leave your lights on, the missiles may come and hit here.”

I will surely get out of it alive.

We Are Not Giving Up

When you watch a movie, you relate to the hero, not to the sidekicks who die. I feel like I am in a movie and I am a hero. I will surely get out of it alive. Anyway, we turned off the lights immediately. We got dressed and took our passports and backpacks. My hands were shivering. We got news that there might be an alarm and, if it rang three times, you would have to get down. So we just waited.Meanwhile, there were videos in our student group about the blasts going on in Kharkiv. My roommate's brother is stuck in Kharkiv. We’ve heard that the bordering countries of Ukraine, like Poland, Slovakia and Romania, would let us into their countries to take shelter. Now we have a goal to get there as soon as possible. We may go there by ourselves, but it feels risky. So we are waiting for the embassy to get us a bus or something to take us.I hope I'll be alive to see this narrative published on The Doe.

For many people, my job is a literal nightmare: showing up to class naked. I’m in my mid-30s. I stand 5 '11” and hover around 290 pounds, with a shaved head, well-kept beard, a fantastically hairy back and, in all honesty, a smaller-than-average penis. My job is to stand in the center of a room with anywhere from one to a hundred or more strangers, strip completely nude and stay that way for an average of three or so hours while these strangers observe, draw, paint, sculpt and interpret every angle of my body in bold, dynamic lighting.I’m a nude art model. More specifically, a plus-sized nude art model for life drawing classes. I have plied my craft in drafty art schools, prestigious universities, artists’ basements, Brooklyn office buildings, art galleries and various bastions of free expression in the greater tri-state area. I have faced the minions of doubt that appeared to me as manifestations of my bare form in the countless sketchbooks of first-year art students and the directions of instructors for their students to “really focus on the negative space in the pelvic region.”

Yes, erections can happen and it’s not a big deal.

Nude Modeling Begs a Few Questions

We can start with the usual question: Yes, erections can happen and it’s not a big deal; you just excuse yourself for a second. For women, it’s not an issue if it’s that time of the month; just ask the session runner to keep your bottom on (although I have posed with female models where I have spied a string and they just kept the poses more…discreet). People who know me know what I do and don’t really care. Some have even come to draw me. In my 10 years of experience, no one has ever pointed and laughed. No, I have never been propositioned. Yes, I am a very shy person. And finally, yes, I still get nerves sometimes, but they’re more about posing than being nude.One of the most misunderstood aspects about nude figure modeling is what exactly it is a model does, namely the posing itself. Usually, a session runs on average three hours and involves holding poses for various lengths of time, from just a few seconds to several weeks or months, for roughly 20 minutes at a time. Short poses require broad, dynamic gestures that mimic actions and can be quite exhausting. Longer poses involve standing, sitting or reclining in one position for a full 20 minutes, possibly even more over many sessions, and can end up being painful and mind-numbing. Cultivating a roster of creative, unique poses has proven to be a massive challenge, and I have had my fair share of cramps, strained muscles, numb limbs and even tumbles. There is a special form of panic you feel when you’re not even halfway through a long pose and start to notice a little burning climbing up your legs. If a model isn’t careful, they might find themselves in the middle of a classroom, unable to move or feel anything from the waist down. Learning my body, and what it can handle, while being an interesting model is a constant effort.Being a nude art model requires learning to become comfortable with the five words, “OK, so, whenever you’re ready…” For most of my life, I have existed within the awkward liminal space between my desire to be seen in my truest, most realized self and my wish to be huddled away, hidden in the ether.

Being a Musician Oddly Translates to Nude Modeling

I have worked in this line of business for 10 years, but my life’s work has been—and still is—in music. When I started working as an art model, I had become frustrated with my occupation. I’m a performer at heart—I’ve played hundreds of shows as a musician. But being a musician can be a limiting gig at first for someone who’s hungry for stage time. You spend more hours prepping, planning, traveling and moving gear than actually performing. I had become more familiar with getting to gigs than playing them.In stark contrast to where I was in that moment of my life, the first modeling gig I got in that time was in front of a room of roughly 20 freshman undergrads, and it felt just like my first time performing music in front of an audience: a recital. Now, while my parents weren’t there feverishly taking pictures for the family album and my teacher wasn’t in the wings chomping piano chords and nodding while mouthing me the lyrics, the same terror gripped me. As I stared at a large wooden model stand in the middle of a semicircle of empty easels where, just like the stage and soon-to-be-filled seats of a Catholic school basement auditorium 15 years prior, I looked upon my charge as a slack-jawed, doe-eyed neophyte, I realized the question I was asking in those moments was the same: Am I allowed to do this? Whether it’s performing music or nude modeling, getting up in front of a room full of people and requesting their attention on any level demands that you accept who you are as well as what you can and can’t control. Once the robe is off and the timer has started, you are here in the moment. Every insecurity or personal hang-up must be put away. You are no longer operating as a specific human; you are now the object. Just like an actor becomes the character or a musician becomes another member of the band, an art model becomes a body, a collection of limbs, meat and movement used by artists to learn and create. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

You are now the object.

Nude Modeling Helped Me Manage My Performance Anxiety

I still absolutely experience nerves. I second-guess creative decisions all the time. Annoying tics—like my leg shaking out of my conscious control—throw off my rhythm. I exist more in the aforementioned reclusive ether, staring out the window or trying to get out, only to be kneecapped or restrained by my fears when trying to leave. Posing nude for groups of people lets me explore the initial hit of having everyone’s eyes on me, while also maintaining exposure over an extended period of time and delivering on an audience’s expectations. If I could stand naked in front of a group of strangers for three hours, I think singing some songs might become a bit easier.Suffice it to say, eventually, the leg did stop shaking. Onstage performances and public speaking engagements of all kinds became much easier to deal with. On a subconscious level, I know how to better manage the swings of a performance and understand that a performance isn’t a single point but a wiggly line. There are high moments and low moments. Being able to operate calmly under pressure while also knowing that every audience is different lets me focus on my adjustments instead of overcorrecting based on a panic mindset. On a conscious level, I am able to manage how an audience receives me better, as well. After hundreds of bookings and dozens of referrals, I know I can do this gig and deserve to be here. The same goes for music. I can now move on from a less than stellar gig knowing that I deserve to be where I am. Moreover, if I don’t have a particularly good performance, I am no longer frustrated that I have to wait days, if not weeks, to have another shot to maybe get better at my performance mindset.I’m lucky that I have always enjoyed and been comfortable with being nude. That being said, I have spent most of my life dealing with massive body and self-esteem issues, so I kept this appreciation of not wearing clothes mostly to myself.

Nude Modeling Isn’t for Everyone, but Not Because of Looks

While modeling for life drawing sessions has helped me be a better performer, the benefits to my confidence have been without comparison. I still struggle with body issues, especially being overweight, but having a room full of people applaud, or even give a standing ovation, at the end of the night as you stand there, bare, every flaw exposed, is a massive boost for a person’s self-esteem.That being said, I would hesitate to recommend nude modeling to everyone. This line of work is as much a privilege to be offered as it is a service you are offering. While the job is built on a trust that you will operate as a decent human being, you are still offering yourself to someone else, and that can be a lot for some people; maybe too much. While I have found modeling empowering, for some this might be an experience that triggers a traumatic response, especially in the wrong scenario.But no one should feel excluded from modeling because of their looks. There is no such thing as an ugly body. I had a difficult time accepting that reality myself, but the supporting evidence I’ve accumulated over the years is quite overwhelming. You can be a model of any shape, size or age or with any physical malady. Every body is welcomed.So, whenever you’re ready…

In my early 20s, I was in college with two small children. Needing more income, I looked for a job and came across a car dealership hiring people with no experience. As I walked across the lot in five-inch heels, I realized I may have been a bit overdressed."Do you know anything about Lincolns?" the manager, wearing a button-down Hawaiian shirt, asked me."I drive a Ford. I like Ford,” I said. “They’re related, right?" I was hired, but he should have asked if I could drive a stick shift. (I can't.)

The Car Dealership Industry Clicked With Me

I loved absolutely everything about selling cars: training, marketing, (so much) selling and eventually management and finance. After more than a decade in dealerships, I started working privately by sourcing vehicles and consulting for owners.I'll get right down to the juicy details. In a typical new car dealership, there are three to five managers, 13 or so salespeople, a porter, plus a service department, with their own similar setup and detail crew. There is a receptionist and office staff, who are often the only women. Female managers are rare gems, and female owners are like unicorns. In many ways, it's still very much a good old boys’ club. The majority of people who stick around in the business are natural alpha types, strong personalities who crave competition. Throw a soft-spoken but strong-willed young lady with major curves in the mix and things change a bit. At my very first dealership, I realized this could be a painful experience if I chose to stay in this industry. The majority of women in this field have dealt with sexual harassment on multiple occasions. I dealt with it at every level of my career. I once had a manager who wouldn't get my deals done because I said I didn't want to have a dinner date with him. He was screwing the new owner and they liked to drink on the clock.

I have seen it all.

Being a Woman in a Male-Dominated Industry Can Have Its Perks

Over the years, after working in several states and settling a lawsuit, I built a reputation as a woman who wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense from men. Then things changed for the better, and I had extremely different experiences than equally qualified men in similar positions. With clients, it was beneficial. Buyers seemed to trust me more, open up and genuinely enjoyed working with me. I always tried to be helpful, remembering how challenging the car buying process feels to the average person.In order to be successful in this field, you have to be pretty feisty, and I bumped heads with men on a regular basis. My morals and values were never up for negotiation. I have seen it all: fake licenses, dead people's social security numbers, fake pay stubs, forged documents, packed payments, stolen vehicles sold by dealers. There are so many stories I'd love to share, but that would take forever.When people start considering the process of buying a new vehicle, it can be overwhelming. There are a plethora of choices—the type of car, trim level, dealership, financing, extended service contract, etc. Then add immense sums of money into the equation. Because car dealers work every day, they get desensitized to the emotional rollercoaster that buyers often go through. Obviously, they are in business to make big profits. Combine all of this and it's easy to see why car salespeople can have a shady reputation. But I've spent my entire career believing and sharing that ethical business practices are the only way to do things.

Car Dealerships Don’t Rip You off as Much as You’d Think

Because of the pandemic, and because more people are working remotely, the auto industry has now moved into the digital space. One of the benefits is that it allows buyers to feel comfortable while going through a more transparent experience. The big question everyone really wants to know: Do car dealers really rip people off?The truth will probably surprise you: They don't. I'm not saying it never happens—it does, unfortunately. However, in general, the answer is no. There's not enough profit margin in most vehicles or in bank loan terms to add in thousands of extra dollars. Banks require what's called a loan-to -value ratio that's about 120 percent. That (seemingly) extra 20 percent is often used for taxes, fees and extended warranties. And before profit, there are costs associated with servicing, detailing and advertising the vehicle. Furthermore, dealerships spend unbelievable amounts on software, staffing, inventory, car washes, fuel, parking lots and buildings. There's just not much profit left in most car deals these days. Additionally, there are a ton of laws and regulations that require dealers to disclose loads of information. So, if you pay attention to the math and use a car loan calculator, it's pretty hard to get ripped off. Even today, in the midst of a national chip shortage for new vehicles, making used car prices skyrocket, I preach fairness.

I can't give away all the secrets.

Being a Car Saleswoman Is Tough, but Can Be Incredibly Rewarding

Let's talk about cash. Do you think that you would get a better deal if you paid for a vehicle outright? Nope, you’re actually more likely to get a worse deal by paying cash, if the dealer even agrees to it. Weird, right? I'll explain. The dealership wants to keep you. Forever! They want you to use their banks for financing, their service department, their warranty companies, trading in your vehicle with them. In fact, I recently had a deal funded within a few hours—the dealership sent the completed paperwork to the bank, and the bank wrote the dealership a check. It’s just as fast as a cash transaction. Or maybe us car folks just really enjoy doing lots of paperwork; the world may never know. I can't give away all the secrets.There is no shortage of amazing individuals in the car business. Some of the best people I have ever met have spent their lives in the transportation industry. It's a tough business to be in sometimes, especially for a woman. There is absolutely no balance between home and work life unless you get creative and serve your time in dealerships before branching out on your own. Mistakes can cost the price of the vehicles you’re selling. But one great thing is that it's never boring. When I think I have seen it all, something new happens. It's immensely rewarding to help people purchase vehicles they love. It's an adventurous career choice, one that I’m proud of doing. And if you’re cute, you don't even need to learn to drive a stick shift. All the guys will be happy to move anything you need! I always got a kick out of that.

“Now hiring 14-year-olds.” The signs have been recently spotted all around the United States due to labor shortages, and people have reacted in horror and disgust at the thought of sending an eighth grader to work. They picture children in the early 1900s working in factories or perhaps children in modern-day sweatshops. The truth is that the U.S. has been using child labor since Day One, and despite official regulations being created in 1938, several establishments have flown under the radar. I know because, as a child at 14, I worked at one of them. It was not in some run-down, sketchy location. It was an upscale camp and conference center in an upper-middle-class suburban town.

Did I mention we were getting $6 per hour, which was under minimum wage?

My Home-School Status Made It Easier to Work Longer Hours

Several factors contributed to my early introduction into capitalism. The first and most significant are my parents. Simply put, they’re the kind of people who think it’s a good idea for an eighth grader to bring home money. I was home-schooled, so they saw that as free time for me to make money instead of learn. Money first, knowledge later. I ended up opening my textbooks on long nights after work and completing middle and high school all on my own. The second is my parents' extreme conservative Christian beliefs. I worked at a religious establishment, and my parents already knew several people associated with it. I went to camp there myself when I was a child, receiving useful information such as “wearing shorts causes men to stumble” and “good Christian girls save themselves for marriage.”This ultra-conservative, right-wing, Christian mentality permeated throughout the entire establishment, finding its way to the kitchen-dining room where I worked. Adults were respected and obeyed without question, even if their habits didn’t make sense, like serving under-baked pizza or re-mopping a spotless area of the floor. Music was constantly policed and outlawed if it sounded like “devil music.” Verbal abuse was used to motivate faster work or simply take out frustrations on us. I’ll never forget the day that I came into work with wet hair and one of the adult cooks loudly remarked, “Wow, everybody, look who finally learned how to take a shower and wash her hair!” I was the only person with frizzy, wavy hair in the entire place, and I was a child, so that really stung. Perhaps the biggest failure of the adults was making us home-school kids work eight- to ten-hour shifts during school days. I remember the hiring people being so happy when I told them my availability. No one ever told me I should legally be working three hours per day during the school week, but there I was, working like a 30-year-old with a mortgage and car payments. Oh, and did I mention we were getting $6 per hour, which was under minimum wage?

High School Superiors Worked Me to the Bone and Permanently Damaged My Skin

The adults were only half of the problem. You might think that people at your job act immature and childish—but imagine if they were all mostly eighth, ninth and tenth graders. I only applied to this camp in the first place because I had a crush on a boy from church who worked there. The fact that I would be getting money was an afterthought. The people running each shift were other kids like me—immature and unprepared to run a kitchen and dining room. We were constantly bullied by the kids who were in charge. I also suffered permanent bodily damage.One of the things the shift leaders made me do was take burning-hot metal and ceramic dishes out of the dishwasher with no hot pads or any sort of heat protection. I burnt my bare hands over and over on these scalding clean dishes as I put them away. I have lost sensitivity in my hands because of this. My face and neck were also burnt several times when I was told to open the dishwasher before it was ready. The streams of burning water would fly out at me, and I’m very lucky they missed my eyes. Something else that the shift leaders did without us was take breaks when there was a lot of work to be done. I remember standing up for close to seven hours one day because there was so much work and not enough people around to do it. This happened a lot, and we did not have rubber mats to stand on. We had hard ground. Now I have permanent damage to my feet, knees and shoulders because my growing body was worked so harshly. The adults didn’t seem to care or were mysteriously gone when these things were happening.

Eighth graders shouldn’t work. Period.

Child Labor Should Never Be Allowed to Happen

One day, I remember going to the dining room area during a religious meeting hosted by one of the adult staff members. What they were preaching versus how they were treating the staff just one room over was like night and day. They talked about treating others with love, and yet they had a child scrubbing dishes in the next room, five hours into an illegally long shift. The child exploitation was eventually brought to an end at this place, but it was for the wrong reasons. You see, children even volunteered there during the summertime. The parents would pay the normal summer camp fee, and the kids got to stay there and work with the adult staff all summer. But the child exploitation was brought to a screeching halt as the result of a lawsuit that forced the adult kitchen staff to finally realize the legal consequences of breaking child labor laws. No more all-day shifts, impossible workloads and Lord of the Flies-type shift managers for those under 18. So, the next time you see one of those “now hiring 14- and 15-year-olds” signs, run the opposite direction. Eighth graders shouldn’t work. Period. Never mind what the laws say.

Before I started working again, I was a stay-at-home parent, and it made me happier than I could have ever expected. But once my spouse's heart condition worsened, forcing them to quit working and focus on their health, I had to step up and take over the financial responsibility for our family. I started working but the job didn't pay enough and the hours weren't enough to support our family of three. Then, I found a high-paying job, but the hours were longer. I have to work overtime nearly every day, equating to a minimum of 50-plus hours a week. Needless to say, adjusting to my new life has been especially hard because I'd been with my daughter since she was born. She will be 4 in March. It's been a complete 180.

I miss my family.

I Can Afford to Support My Family, but at What Cost?

Don't get me wrong. I love knowing that our bills are paid and we have food in our stomachs. But I miss my family. Since I'm working such long hours now, I don't get to say goodnight to my child or my significant other (SO). By the time I get home—no later than midnight if I'm lucky—they're fast asleep. It's starting to take its toll on me emotionally. But thanks to our newfound financial stability, my SO and I were finally able to get married. We could finally afford it. It was a rough yet incredible holiday season (we got married on Thanksgiving weekend). The in-laws came and didn’t quite understand why we waited so long or why it had to be planned around my days off. The fact that we were shackled by our capitalist work requirements added an unbearable amount of stress.I miss having free time, spending it with my family and doing the things that make me happy. I've had five surgeries on my feet and ankles, so after 10-plus-hour days, I'm in serious pain. The holidays are going to be especially hard for us. Management is predicting 60-plus-hour work weeks, with a chance of having only one day off per week. Knowing that I can give my family a good holiday is comforting, but my physical and mental health is paying the price.

Since I've rejoined the workforce, I realized something: I hate it.

I Hate My Job, and I Hate That It Takes Me Away From My Family

Like many adults in my generation, I have anxiety and depression. Luckily, I don't have a lot of triggers to worry about while I'm working (hopefully it stays that way). Management knows about my surgeries, and they understand that I need to sit periodically to alleviate pain and pressure on my feet. Given how much I'm going to be working for the foreseeable future, I worry that I won't be able to take care of my own well-being. My SO is already noticing a change in my mental and physical health and wishes I didn't have to work so much.Since I've rejoined the workforce, I realized something: I hate it. I hate the fact that we have to sacrifice over one-third of our lives in order to live in society. I miss spending time with my family. I don't feel like I'm actually working toward anything by working again. Sure, my bills are paid and we have food in our stomachs, but I no longer recognize myself in the mirror. My SO said they feel like I'm a completely different person now, as if the person I was died. I'm worried that I'll miss out on seeing my daughter growing up while I slave away for a paycheck.I hate the fact that if I want to spend time with my family now, I have to sacrifice my own sleep. I'm down to about four hours a night now, and I have to consume multiple energy drinks in order to stay functional at work. I worry that I'll fall asleep on my drive home at night and I miss having the choice of taking a nap. Not to mention the fact that I've lost 30-plus pounds since I started. At this point, I feel like I live at work. There are 31 days in December, which equates to 744 hours. I will be working half of December, literally. I may as well buy a tent and sleep in the break room.I'm sleep-deprived, starving and alone. I hate who I have become: a slave to my financial responsibilities. I hope my daughter never has to live like this when she is older. If I power through the holiday season, I can secure my job. Maybe I’ll get a break.

You won’t win if you don’t try.I’m at another Craigslist job—dispatching tow trucks for people in Boston and Florida. Working 12 hours a day, six days a week—no breaks, no lunch. There is more to life, and I am going to find it. A TV plays in the background. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (WWTBAM) is on. An incoming call rings twice and I answer. The boss is angry and throws a telephone at the wall. He screams that I’m not paying attention and fires me—on the spot.Good. Good riddance. You don’t get unemployment if you quit. Not the first time I got fired, and it won’t be the last. After watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire for two years, I now can watch it every day. I like the show—my correct answers are a daily accomplishment.I know the answers to the questions. My head is filled with this trivia. I started playing online. A commercial says send an email, take the test and be on the show.So I do that and get an appointment to take the test. It’s across the river in New York City. Ride the bus to Port Authority and walk 30 blocks to the studio. I have energy, time and little money.

Not the first time I got fired, and it won’t be the last.

I Practiced for Hours and Read Almanacs to Study for the Show

There is a line of 70 people snaking around the block. At 4 o’clock, we are ushered to the cafeteria. Long tables with 12 chairs—nothing fancy. We get a 40 question test with 10 minutes to complete it. Four multiple-guess answers—just like the show. I’m going to race through the questions I know, go back to answer the blank ones and recheck my answers. I’m confident—if it doesn't work out, it’s only the cost of bus fare.We sit at the tables with different copies of the test to prevent cheating. “What soap opera takes place in Pine Valley?”—questions like that. Watching soaps pays off. The tests are collected, and we compare answers. “How many women are on the Supreme Court?” One, three and two are my tablemates’ replies. I said two and name all nine justices. That was always the extra credit question in my college class about the Supreme Court. The others are silent and surprised I know that.Fifteen of the 100 people pass. We are interviewed to determine if we are interesting TV fodder. I tell the interviewer I have worked at 40 jobs. They say wait for a postcard or a packet of papers in the mail. Get either and you’ll be on the show. A week later, I get the postcard.I keep watching the show, collecting unemployment. It’s a vacation from bad jobs offering no vacations. One day, a message on the answering machine says, “We have an opening. Would you still like to be on the show?” Hell yeah!The packet with eight pages of questions about my life and legal requirements arrives. Then, I wait a few weeks for an appointment to be on the show.I play the online version for eight to ten hours every day. When I’m not playing, I page through an almanac. You have 30 seconds to answer. I open one window for the questions and another window for quick repartee with Meredith Vieira’s picture. I discover an answer the writers got wrong. Screenshot questions I don’t know and look them up.A high school friend is one of my three “phone friends.” We play over the phone, and he makes lists of topic answers, taping them on his walls. I enjoy auto racing—but no other sports. Children’s TV shows, current pop music, BLANK…I don’t know those.

Being on the Show Was Thrilling

Finally, the day arrives—the Tuesday after Labor Day. My wife waits in the audience. I join nine other contestants. There is a legal presentation and show procedure is explained: Don’t tell anyone the results until the show airs; spill the beans and no big check. The show airs about a month later, so expect the check a week after that. Off to the green room to wait your turn to play.There are snacks and beverages. An impressive variety of food. Meredith comes in to say hi and thank us for coming. The first people go out to start playing. The rest of us talk, share questions we got wrong on the computer game and mention our accomplishments. Almost everyone went to college. We have bachelor’s degrees, master’s and a high school graduate who owns a music store on Staten Island. One had three books published; another spoke five languages. A few were on Jeopardy! and explain why WWTBAM is better. You don’t compete against others, and the payout is higher. Answer 15 questions correctly and win $1,000,000.We watch the first chosen on the monitors. Unlike the computer game, you have as much time as you want. This gives you more time to think about your answers. Some people take five minutes to make their final answer. One guy wins $1,000. The woman who wrote three books gets the second question wrong and takes home two T-shirts and three refrigerator magnets.The high school graduate, a music store owner, wins $250,000. Someone puts make-up on our faces. I’m ushered to a seat behind the stage. One of the contestants sits in the hot seat and plays the game. I listen to the director and audio guys work. He wins $1,000 and exits the stage. I move to the next seat, behind the stage, near the stage entrance.The next person wins $1,000 and finishes. Then, I walk onto the stage and sit in the chair across from Meredith. She is charming and makes some small talk. Talking to Meredith’s picture on my computer screen paid off.Finally sitting in that chair, listening to the music, watching the lights flash up and down…it is the biggest thrill of my life. “What sitcom had people sleeping in hammocks?” That answer pays me $500, more money than I make in a 40-hour week. I quickly win $1,000. At this point, I will take home the money. After that, I can withdraw and keep what I earned. Get any question wrong and I still get $1,000. $1,000 and $25,000 are the prize benchmarks.I’m not sure of a question and use the Ask the Audience lifeline. It matches my hunch and I win. After that, Meredith asks what fast-food place had recently started the “Eat Fresh” slogan. I’m stressed out, not positive and use the 50/50 lifeline. Blimpie and Subway are the choices. I’m still not 100 percent positive, so I take my last lifeline and have them call one of my friends. I ask him the question and give him the two answers. The clock ticks down. He says he doesn’t know and thinks it might be Subway. Time’s up and he’s gone. Meredith is amused.I choose Subway for the final answer and win that round. The buzzer goes off and finishes that episode. I go to a dressing room and put on my change of clothes. People at home will think I returned the next day.We resume and the $25,000 question is correctly answered. I won’t go home with less. I answer the $50,000 question, guess and I’m wrong. $25,000 is great! I never expected to get $1,000,000. Meredith hands me the large blue prop check for $25,000, thanks me and I exit. Offstage, the crew congratulates me. I remember the lady who went home with T-shirts, refrigerator magnets and regret.

It is the biggest thrill of my life.

I Was Able to Enjoy Time Off From Work After Winning

We depart for the subway—the train, not the sandwich shop. An audience member sees us and shouts, “Congratulations.”I keep the secret for a month, telling no one. My bank is next door. They watch WWTBAM every day on the lobby TV. I withdraw some money the day before the show airs, saying nothing. Two days later, the show finishes at 1 p.m. A lot of my rambling is edited out. I look heavier than I imagine myself to be. I go to the bank to deposit my unemployment check. The people in the bank are happy to see me. I joke that it wasn’t me and they laugh.A week later, the real check arrives and I deposit it. Unemployment runs out. I buy a used car and stay home for another six months. Time is more precious than additional money. I gratefully enjoy both and wonder: Did the dispatch office watch the show?

On July 29, 2019, I filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy. In doing so, I wiped away $35,000 of credit card debt—debt that included a decade of medical bills, insurance premiums, food, utilities and a lot of basic survival-type shit that I could not have otherwise afforded. I still feel a lot of shame about filing for bankruptcy. American culture is hyper money-focused, and because we believe ourselves to be a meritocracy, financial failure—or just financial struggle—is viewed as a moral failure. Struggling to pay your bills? Try harder. Got debt collectors calling you? It’s your fault. On the other hand, we deify the rich. Financial success in America is looked at as the pinnacle of human achievement. We worship at the altar of entrepreneurs, those maverick individuals who find ways to game the system and accrue fantastical riches. The message this sends Americans is: If you’re not rich, you’re not important.

I—not shockingly—chose food.

I Had to Choose Between Paying Off My Debt and Eating

I was never wildly excessive with my money. I didn’t buy big-screen TVs or spend on lavish parties and vacations. But graduating in a recession, living during an unprecedented era of wage stagnation and rent increases with no healthcare coverage for years just kept accumulating costs I couldn’t cover. I stopped paying my credit card in 2018 when it became a choice between my minimum payment and eating. It is an entirely isolating feeling when you know you cannot afford to pay your basic expenses, but it is an even more overwhelming feeling when paying your debts means forgoing things like, say, food. So, I—not shockingly—chose food. It took only a few weeks for the phone calls to start. They came at all hours, from all area codes. Some days, they came in five-minute intervals. I ignored these calls based upon the advice of no one since I sought no advice on how to alleviate my debt. And because I felt like a sublevel human shit for having debt in the first place, I kept this process from almost everyone I knew.Never at any point in this process did I consider bankruptcy. Even though I had no feasible way to pay off the debt, I was obsessed with the idea of digging my way out of this hole. Bankruptcy was for quitters, for the losers, the failures. In America, you’re told that there’s always a way to hustle your way out of a jam, to get that one golden opportunity that can rescue you from embarrassing destitution. Ignoring reality and dreaming super fucking vaguely that I’d be rescued seemed more hopeful than acknowledging my reality: that there was no chance in hell I had the means to handle this debt. One day, about a year after the payments stopped, the phone calls did too. In private conversations with other people running from debt, I’d heard that in rare cases—after a year or so—the collectors can actually just…disappear. Then, my bank sued me.

After Hearing an Acquaintance's Story, I Began Filing for Bankruptcy

They called up a law firm with a cache of aggressive lawyers; they filed a court date; and they sent an official letter saying that I was past due and liable to pay back everything owed or my wages could be garnished. Pretty scary shit. I’d vaguely asked about bankruptcy on Facebook years before (“Just asking out of pure curiosity”), and an acquaintance DMed me with her story. She told me that bankruptcy was one of the better decisions she’d ever made in her life. It allowed her to start fresh, to erase the mistakes of her past and be able to make financial decisions with a clearer mind. She told me it helped her be kinder to herself and referred me to a bankruptcy lawyer and financial advisor she said would guide me through the entire process without shame or judgment. I made the call that day and laid out my extensive financial history and was told immediately that I qualified for Chapter 7 bankruptcy. Chapter 7 is the type of bankruptcy where you erase all your debts. In order to qualify, you must prove a few things:At the time, I was working as a bartender, waiter, assistant, truck driver, copywriter and was selling vintage clothes and flipping items on eBay. It was not a glamorous life but this also meant I qualified for 100 percent relief of my credit card debt.After you decide to look debt in the face and punch it in the fucking jaw, you then need to fork over some dough. $1,800 goes to the financial folks who set you up with a bankruptcy lawyer, give you all the proper paperwork, help you file your court date, send you links to federally required pre- and post-bankruptcy financial competency tests and also field all your paranoid questions because you believe you’re going to fuck it all up. You make an itemized list of three to six months of expenses for the judge (I was asked for six), and you get intimately familiar with how you spend every dollar you earn. Then, it’s a cool $400 court filing fee to get your date with the judge set in stone. I was broke and lucky to have a close friend float me the money to pay for the service. Many cannot.

The message this sends Americans is: If you’re not rich, you’re not important.

My Court Hearing Was Incredibly Anxiety-Inducing

My court date was set for a month after my payments went through, and during that time, I lived with paranoid anxiety that I would be rejected by the judge and banished to lawsuit hell. My lawyer assured me that if I brought my ID and was prepared to answer questions about my itemized expenses, I’d be out in a few minutes. On the day in question, I arrived at my hearing location—a Brutalist-style bank in Downtown L.A.—where hearings are held on the seventh floor. I sat under stained fluorescent bulbs and watched disheveled lawyers in mismatched suits giving young people, couples and elderly immigrants advice, assuring them their cases would be approved. Once my name was called to enter the room and sit with the judge, things got pretty fucking hazy. I wish I could say I held my head high, but once I was two feet in front of the person with the power to decide my financial future, I had difficulty making eye contact or speaking above a faint baby whisper. I’d faced my financial situation head-the-fuck-on by showing up in this room and was finally in a position to have a clean slate and I was deeply fucking terrified. The judge blandly asked my line of work (“waiter”), if I’d spent any money on a credit card in the past three months (“no”). I answered the judge’s questions with the confidence of a 5-year-old covered in glass shards being asked about a broken window, while she studiously looked over my paperwork. The whole affair took about one or two minutes before the judge plainly said, “You are approved.” My lawyer nodded and told me I’d receive my official notice in the mail three months to the day. That was it. Done.I walked to the elevator, descended to ground level, walked into the acrid July heat and cried; the kind of cry where you make harsh grimaces and heave a lot. There was no fanfare, no hugs, no cheers for my courage. It was just the anticlimax of living through a traumatic moment and being forced back into anonymity.

I’ve Started Sharing My Story and Forgiving Myself

It’s been over two years since my approval, and I still haven’t fully come to grips with my reality. My credit score is slowly building up, and I’ve been denied a starter credit card multiple times. I won’t qualify for financing for a car or a home for at least another five years, though my wages make those purchases unreachable anyway. I’ve gradually become more open about my situation, not only as a salve for my shame but as a means to spark discussions about the predatory nature of modern capitalism. It’s not an immediate shift toward forgiveness when I talk about my bankruptcy. Talking about it is often painful because the conditioning that all financial struggle is a moral failure—a dearth of effort and grit—runs pretty deep. I have to be mindful of my audience, of those I trust to listen to me without preconceived notions of judgment, of admonishment, of shame. But gradually, with time, there has been easing, a lightness and yes, even some forgiveness. The path is long. We do not live in an equal system. Hard work is not universally rewarded with riches. We live in a system where many of us are one medical bill, one illness away from financial devastation. Wealth inequality in America, especially since the pandemic, has propelled us into a new Gilded Age where a few individuals control most of the wealth. There really should be no shame for struggling in a corrupt and imbalanced system. Meritocracy is a toxic myth. I don’t force the decision to file bankruptcy on anyone, as each person’s financial situation deserves different approaches. Although I can be hardest on myself, from time to time, I find myself listening to my own advice as I console a friend in need, stressed or sick from the fucking toll it takes to stay just above water financially. “It’s not your fault,” I say. And for a moment, I believe it to be true.

Moving out on my own for the first time, I thought I knew exactly what it would feel like. I reveled in the idea of going to bed whenever I wanted, eating whatever I wanted and making my own rules. Sure, I knew that there would be bills to pay, but how long could that really take? Nowhere in my mental picture of independence did I envision a world filled with insurance, home repair and homeowners associations.Yet, as I set up camp in my new home, the startling emptiness of unadorned walls and empty cupboards gave me a creeping sense of panic that I had never expected to feel. I literally did not own a broom. I had a suitcase full of clothes, an old mattress on the floor and an entry-level job. How was I supposed to run my own household when I didn’t know what a gallon of milk cost? I started out feeling clueless, then I became nervous, then worried, then downright scared. Why should thoughts of bankruptcy and foreclosure be entering my mind on the first night in my new house?

Financial illiteracy may be destroying America.

My Lack of Financial Knowledge Inspired Me to Educate Myself Online

As I lay on my mattress in the dark listening to the unfamiliar noises of an unfamiliar refrigerator, I realized that I had a choice to make. Either I could live life in fear of the unknown and accept whatever came my way, or I could take charge and learn finance from scratch to become the most knowledgeable adult on the planet.I decided that the only way to stop being scared was with information, so I developed a personal mantra that could be summed up as “Google everything.” All millennials have heard a “back in my day” story about that strange prehistoric time before Google was founded on September 4, 1998. Yet, I think most of us take for granted that we can learn just about anything we want in under an hour.

Learning Personal Finance Is No Easy Feat

Please note that I didn’t say we could learn anything in 10 seconds. That’s simply not true. Googling is hard work. Simple bits of information are easy to find, but if you want to find the most high-interest savings account in your city, you will have to be willing to dig. Sadly, most people I know are not willing to do the hard work of digging. I see so many others around me stumble through life financially because they don't take charge of their money.In my state, a semester-long personal finance class is a requirement for high school graduation. I have no problem with that, but the crisis I faced in my newfound independence was not a crisis that could be solved by knowing how to balance a checkbook. I needed to know what kind of insurance would protect me and which would be a waste of money. An insurance broker wasn’t going to give me an honest answer to that question, so I turned to Google.Spending a couple of evenings watching YouTube videos about insurance was not what I envisioned in my earlier fantasies about financial independence, but I emerged from that experience with solid coverage at an affordable price. Three years and two claims later, I’m so grateful I bought the insurance I did.

Google Can Teach You Everything You Need to Know About Practical Finance

Another thing I learned on Google is how to live on a monthly budget. Nobody likes to talk about budgeting. If you do, you probably don’t have a lot of friends. However, that critical life skill single-handedly melted 90 percent of my financial fears. After all, why should I be afraid of running out of money when I can see on paper where every dollar of my paycheck is going? After Google led me to an intuitive budgeting app, I cut the confusing spreadsheets out of my life, and taking charge of my income became a breeze.Critics of my “Google everything” approach to personal finance say that I’m putting my financial fate in the hands of Google’s algorithm. As someone who does not trust Big Tech, I can understand that concern. However, if you don’t do your research, you’re essentially surrendering your future to pop-up ads and your broke co-worker with an opinion. Sure, you will find bad financial advice on the internet, too, but I think most people are smart enough to accept the truth when they are willing to dig deep enough to find it.

Nobody likes to talk about budgeting. If you do, you probably don’t have a lot of friends.

Personal Financial Literacy Is Achievable—If You Are Willing to Invest Your Time

Before we live on our own, I think all of us envision the transition to adulthood as a graceful swan dive. In reality, that leap can look a lot more like flailing in the deep end of the pool. My story is living proof that anyone with internet access can rise above their own ignorance. Financial illiteracy may be destroying America, but I believe intentionality and the internet are the two ingredients that can save young adults from a life of financial stress and mediocrity.Over the past few years, I’ve dodged some major financial pitfalls by doing internet research that most people would be too bored to do. The time and money I’ve saved in the long run could never be counted in dollars, but it has far outpaced the hourly rate of my day job. Still, the biggest return I’ve seen on my investment has been the confidence of knowing that all my major decisions have been informed ones. My financial fear is gone, and there could be no better investment than that.

The CEO of NEMO told me he’d hire me, only if he decided that I was a person he’d like to introduce at a party. In other words: “Are you the type of white woman who can chill with the outdoorsy bros, or are you not?” The company was looking for someone who could hang with its team, someone who was cool enough to not rock the boat carrying all the straight, white, able-bodied people to shore. They weren’t looking for someone like me. I wish I’d realized this was a terrible company prior to my five interviews and eventual rejection, but I was too blinded by the need for a stable income after a year of scraping by on unemployment and odd jobs during the pandemic. My saga with NEMO began when a local recruiter found me on LinkedIn and asked if I could send him my resume. I recognized NEMO’s name because my roommate had worked there. I’d always been envious of her work trips that included drinking and camping in the woods with co-workers and other perks like copious amounts of free, high-quality sleeping bags.I “passed” the screening interview with the recruiter and was next scheduled to meet with the CEO for an hour on Zoom at the end of the week. During our conversation, I learned that NEMO (short for New England Mountain Outfitters) made sleeping bags, tents and other outdoor equipment with a focus on sustainability. The CEO assured me multiple times that NEMO would “never make anything that was already on the market.”He also let me know that after the Black Lives Matter protest surge in 2020, they’d been making some positive changes to their company. For instance, they’d assembled a special team to focus on diversity and hired their first Black employee to be the head of marketing. Blinded by the idea of potentially working for this fancy company, I ate this shit up, knowing full well that hundreds of other manufacturers were making nearly the same exact products and that most companies’ claims about diversity in the wake of Black Lives Matter were merely marketing ploys and virtue signaling.

Blinded by the idea of potentially working for this fancy company, I ate this shit up.

I Recognized a Lot of Privilege During the Interview Process

My next interview, with the head of marketing, was a week later. I was excited to speak about the future of a more inclusive outdoors company. To prepare, I looked at the company’s website and social media to see how it branded itself. To my surprise, what I found contradicted the CEO’s statements about diversity. I expected to see people of all shapes, sizes and colors in the marketing photos. Instead, I found photos of the thin, white and able-bodied NEMO staff modeling all their gear. My interview was eye-opening. “What’s your favorite thing about working for NEMO?” I asked.“They always do what they say they’re going to do,” the head of marketing replied. My fourth interview was with both the graphic designer and the creative content director a week later. This interaction was fine other than learning that one guy had been hired through a friend of a friend. After this, the recruiter let me know that I’d made it to the final stage: The Project. The Project had been mentioned to me in passing, but I still had no idea what it would entail.

The CEO Seemed to Reject Me From the Very Beginning

The CEO emailed me the assignment two business days before they wanted it complete, at which point I resented NEMO, but still really wanted the job. For The Project, I had to write some letters to customers in the voice of the CEO, and in order to do this, I’d interview him for one hour and then compose my letters, sending them to NEMO to review. What struck me as odd was the note at the bottom of the page: “Good luck and have fun! No matter what, you’ll have added another fun piece to your portfolio and life experiences.”Sure, there’s something to be said for growing from struggle, but did I really want to add a grueling and abusive interview process to my list of life experiences? To add to this, the “no matter what” clause seemed like they were already soft rejecting me with an introduction of doubt. Despite my reservations, I figured I’d do my best and press on with the image of a fat salary in my sights.According to the recruiter, I had to interview the CEO by the end of that day because it was the only time he had available before his vacation and they wanted to make a hiring decision by the end of the month, which was rapidly approaching. I rushed to research the CEO’s previous communication letters and prep some interview questions, and despite the stress of rushing to get ready, the interview went fine. When I asked the CEO about how the pandemic changed his perspective on his business practices, he said, “The pandemic gave me time to slow down and leave the rat race behind.” He’d spent more time with his family and less time at the office. I shuddered to think of what the workers at NEMO’s factories had been doing while the CEO was spending more quality time with his wife and kids. He also didn’t mention anything about the millions of people who had died in the last year and a half, which I found strange. Nevertheless, I came out of our conversation with a slew of notes and a recording that I could pull from for my letters. Since NEMO had a tight timeline, I canceled all my plans, drafted the letters, had a friend edit them and turned them in. The recruiter let me know that I’d hear back in a week about their final decision. While waiting, I tried to distract myself by taking walks, eating good food and watching TV. A week passed and I heard nothing, so I emailed the recruiter, who told me the CEO was still on vacation and would be back next week. I waited another week and emailed the recruiter again but got no response, so I emailed the CEO and head of marketing. The head of marketing told me the CEO was still on vacation. I waited another week before following up with the recruiter one more time. He didn’t respond for a day or two, then called me to tell me the company was “going in a different direction.”

Despite my reservations, I figured I’d do my best and press on with the image of a fat salary in my sights.

I’ve Focused My Energy on Supporting Equitable and Diverse Outdoor Brands

I was pissed. After spending four-and-a-half hours in interviews and five hours working on The Project, I figured I at least deserved a timely “no thank you.” If NEMO were a freelance client, I’d have dropped them weeks ago, but I let their bad behavior slide because I believed in the value of a steady paycheck.In response to this experience, I researched a bunch of gear brands to make a list of ones owned and operated by marginalized people, but I couldn’t find any. There are a slew of white girlboss brands such as Swift Industries and Wild Rye. However, these brands focus on clothing rather than tents, backpacks or other outdoor equipment. One outlier is Kula Cloth, a white women-owned brand that makes a cloth that can be used for wiping while on the trail.White companies have a monopoly on the outdoor gear retail space, and my only recourse is to support the future of diverse and equitable brands by donating money to organizations that support marginalized communities getting outside. Some of these organizations include Latino Outdoors, Outdoor Afro, Native Women’s Wilderness, The Venture Out Project, Get Out, Stay Out and the Brooklyn Boulders Foundation. If you enjoy the outdoors and the gear you’ve bought from toxic white brands (because, as of now, that’s the only option), I encourage you to give a little more than you think you should to these organizations. That’s one way you can make the present and future joy of getting outside more accessible to everyone.