What my body knew before i did

When I worked in Rape Crisis, I remember feeling incredibly tired. A tired that was unlike anything I’d felt to that point. I had no idea what was happening to me, because I hadn’t experienced severe exhaustion before. Not like this.

It was a physical thing that felt like its own beast.

I remember being unable to lift my head off my pillow most mornings—I felt as heavy as lead. I would drag myself up and out to work, wondering what would meet me there.

Eventually, I realized this wasn’t normal, and took my butt to a doctor, who diagnosed me with mild depression.

This was my body reacting to the pain I was feeling emotionally. I declined his immediate suggestion to go on meds, but it was a wake-up call. I knew something needed to change in my life.

The strange part was that I actually loved my work and my coworkers. We were a group of passionate, idealistic 20-somethings bonded by our belief that the system needed to do better by survivors.

We were militant about it. Fierce. Determined.

And we believed hospitals, law enforcement, policy makers should serve and respect victims—not interrogate them or diminish their humanity.

But we were exhausted. We were spread thin. Not only were we doing institution visits by day, we also had on-call duties during nights and weekends, driving to hospitals at all hours to be a steady, compassionate presence.

I remember feeling almost completely consumed by my work. I internalized the idea that the agency’s survival depended on me—on my willingness to be there, to sacrifice, to care.

Meanwhile, the board? The administration? They felt like strangers. Distant and corporate. There was no attempt at meaningful connection with staff, no presence.

To me, it felt like they were far removed—except at the annual gala, which always felt performative on some level, though I know that wasn’t the case for all.

There was a separation and tension between them and us, the worker bees.

In hindsight, their focus on money was obviously integral to the survival of our work. I see so much of this need now, with our current landscape and the fight for nonprofits to have their necessary work funded in order to serve and survive.

But back then, I felt a quiet resentment at the lack of empathy for the everyday pain and struggle of the work itself. Especially, with so much of this work existing on the back of women’s free labor, or almost non existent pay.

It felt defeating, and lonely.

Like a beast so huge and all consuming, that the pressure felt suffocating.

Another layer of heaviness for me to carry.

I wish they had taken the time to meet with us and listen. To really see us. To understand that we weren’t just asking for more funding—what we needed was emotional support and more resources. For that pressure to be alleviated. Because vicarious trauma is real.

And I still remember the time a detective hit on me while I waited in a police station hallway, supporting a client mid-investigation.

It was so inappropriate. I felt embarrassed, and a bit violated. Like I was on display, when I didn’t mean to be.

That my very existence invited the wrong kind of attention even in the most institutional of settings.

It confirmed the constant, painful reminder in this work that as a woman I wasn’t safe—not even while doing work rooted in care and justice. I would always be seen as a commodity to be acquired or conquered.

And that thought, that belief, bled into my personal life, affecting my personal relationships.

It certainly did not serve me to see myself in that way. It caused me to get quiet, to hide, to let myself become small.

All this was happening in my mind, while we were immersed in trauma: walking into hospitals to see elderly homeless women ignored and dismissed, children betrayed by their own families, and daily tallies of how many women had reported being raped the night before.

I saw myself in all of these women, young and old. This was my normal.

And through all of it, I kept thinking: Where is the empathy? Why do we lack humanity when we need it most?

Part II: The Corporate Cure That Wasn’t

When I finally left the nonprofit world, I told myself I needed something more stable, less emotionally taxing. But I didn’t yet realize I was trading one form of exhaustion for another.

After I left that world—broken and burned out—I thought the worst was behind me. But a few years later, the depression returned. Only this time, it looked different.

Instead of the heaviness, it came in the form of alopecia. My hair started falling out from stress. But I didn’t feel stressed. There was no trauma to pin it on. Just... numbness. Emptiness and disconnection.

I was working a corporate desk job in the financial industry by then. Staring at spreadsheets all day. Wasting hours in a cubicle, contributing to a company that, to me, felt soulless.

Profit over people. Metrics over meaning.

I’d walk through trading pits—loud, chaotic, male-dominated spaces—and feel their eyes on me. The looks over my body, up and down. The comments whispered as I would pass, and their leering scrutiny. The objectification all over again. A different form, but the same message: You’re a commodity to be used up.

In the larger scheme of that world, I didn’t really matter. I was walking into a fully established business.

My ideas didn’t matter. I wasn’t expected to contribute or innovate.

I was there to learn and comply.

And my body knew it. Long before I did.

I felt like I had betrayed myself. I traded the intensity of meaningful (if painful) work for the flatness of empty ambition. I was suffocating in a world that measured success by numbers I didn’t believe in, decided by men I didn’t trust.

The truth is: my body told the story before I could put it into words.

When I carried the weight of trauma, I felt heavy. When I lost myself, I lost my hair.

Lately, when I tell people I left corporate to pursue my business, they ask me: “What made you decide to leave your job?”

Of course, a big leap like that peaks their curiosity. And I always feel a little nervous answering.

Because honestly:

I stayed longer than I should’ve. I ignored the whispers inside me that said I was meant for more. I let my loyalty override my longing. I kept waiting for things to feel better, easier, and lighter.

I told myself I should be grateful, that I had a great gig. Because, honestly, I did.

I laughingly recalled the movie, The Devil Wears Prada, where the protagonist, Andy, is told “Because this place, where so many people would die to work, you only deign to work.”

That’s what I felt like. And I think that’s where a lot of us get stuck.

We’re exhausted—but tell ourselves to push through.

We’re unfulfilled—but tell ourselves we’re lucky to have a job.

We’re hungry for more—but tell ourselves it’s safer to stay.

I stepped into corporate life - cubicle politics, head down, work hard, put in your time, prove yourself. And at first, that’s what I did.

I sat observing this world of trading, and the chase of money - where the air felt thick with testosterone, strategy, and stress, and was surrounded by mostly men yelling at screens blinking red and green, and it felt strange and fake.

But after six years in that role, I transitioned into a new department—an internal innovation lab in another building, with a completely different energy.

My new manager? Incredible. He saw me. He listened to my ideas. He challenged me in ways that made me feel like my brain had finally come online again.

And for a while, I thought: Maybe this is it. Maybe I can grow here.

I spent ten more years there building, collaborating, imagining what could be possible inside a place that often felt resistant to change. I had more freedom than ever. I was respected. And I learned so much.

But even with all that, something inside me stayed restless.

It wasn’t the people—it was the container. The company. The unspoken rules, the politics, the unshakable feeling that my work—though considered important—wasn’t mine. I could play the game and even win it.

But even winning started to feel empty—because the work itself never lit me up. I tried to care about trading, derivatives, and tech systems. I understood that what we did mattered—to markets, to farmers, to the global economy.

But no matter how I spun it, I couldn’t find meaning in it. It felt abstract, distant—like I was pouring energy into something I didn’t believe in.

And the longer I stayed, the more I realized the “prize” of more money, or a promotion, wasn’t enough for me.

Even as I thrived professionally, I kept asking: But is this mine? Am I creating what I’m meant to create—or just what’s accepted here?

There would always be more people for me to have to prove myself to, always bureaucracy to deal with, and I wanted more of the feeling of connection and fulfillment in my work.

I wanted to give myself permission to create work where I could feel deeply, and connect more meaningfully with those that I serve.

So I left.

Not because I had a perfectly polished plan. Not because I had it all figured out. Not because I knew what the future would look like.

I left because I was ready to choose me.

To honor the voice I’d spent years silencing. To explore what was possible outside the walls I’d gotten used to. To reclaim my energy, my creativity, my time, my values.

If you’ve been walking that same line between exhaustion and expectation, your body whispering what your mind won’t yet admit—you’re not alone.

And if that’s where you are right now—standing on the edge of a big decision, a new chapter, or even just an inner awakening—I want you to know this:

You don’t have to have it all figured out to honor your knowing. You don’t have to burn it all down to start listening to your soul. And you’re not selfish or crazy or naive for wanting more.

You’re human.

Now, at 41, a year post-corporate world - and how do I feel?

Honestly? All over the place.

Life feels like a rush of activities. I think about my aging parents, worried about how much time I have left with them.

I feel pulled in different directions, wondering if I’m doing enough for my daughters. I want them to feel supported, not crushed, by the weight of the world.

And through it all, I’m still rediscovering who I am.

My body is still speaking—this time through hives.

Sometimes, I don’t even know what’s triggering them. Diet? Environment? My immune system screaming for my attention?

Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe my body is asking me to pay attention. To what I’m consuming. What I’m surrounded by. What I’m still tolerating that no longer serves me.

And here’s what I’ve realized:

The most radical, transformational thing we can do - especially in a world that rewards performance, productivity and perfection - is to return to our humanity.

Not the curated version of humanity, but the messy, honest, present one.

The kind that lets us slow down enough to ask: What do I need? What am I feeling? What actually matters to me?

That doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to laugh. It doesn’t have to be so serious. But it does have to be real.

It’s our empathy, our felt senses - that keep us connected.

Ambition in denial of ourselves, is an empty exercise. When we abandon ourselves in the name of ambition, achievement becomes hollow.

It will always lead to losing ourselves for the sake of some external reward.

It might look good on the outside - but inside, we’re tired, broken, and disconnected.

Our bodies know it before our minds do. The stress. The confusion. The skin that breaks out. The sleep that won’t come. The voice that won’t speak.

But when we give our life the attention it deserves, we plug in. We find depth, beauty, and nuance. We resolve to know ourselves more deeply, to fall in love with our lives.

When we choose to pay attention - to what we’re consuming, to what we’re tolerating, to what we long for - we start to come home to ourselves.

We start to realize: Fulfillment doesn’t come from proving our worth. It comes from remembering it.

When we numb out, distract, or avoid—we miss it.

And don’t be remiss - we will fuck it up. We’ll get distracted or we’ll forget. But we can always course correct. That’s the beauty of being human.

Every failure leads to discovery.

It’s not all pain and gnashing of teeth. It can be light. It can be open. It can be joyful, honest, and whole.

The real power lives in presence. Real growth begins with honesty. And real ambition is not about conquering more, but connecting more - deeply, courageously, unapologetically.

You don’t need to earn your humanity. You just need to return to it.

We don’t have to prove ourselves. We just have to rememberourselves.

The more you you are, the more alive this life becomes. Come back to yourself. Back to your humanity - with all the complexity, empathy and imperfection it brings.

Our humanity is in service to us.

Remembering is an act of resistance from the status quo.

We need to remember more, especially in this stark and ambition-driven world where external validation and endless monetary rewards and fame seem to be the end all, be all.

Prioritize presence over perfection.

Ambition without abandonment.

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