You matter too.

Let it go—the

smashed word broken

open vow or

the oath cracked length

wise—let it go it

was sworn to

                        go

let them go—the

truthful liars and

the false fair friends

and the boths and

neithers—you must let them go they

were born

                    to go

let all go—the

big small middling

tall bigger really

the biggest and all

things—let all go

dear

      so comes love

-- E.E. Cummings

“You matter too.” I’ve woken up whispering it. I’ve spoken it aloud into the mirror. I’ve had to take it on like a mantra because something about this job has compelled me to let it impose itself on my life like a tangle of fishing net or a blanket that’s too heavy to kick down to the end of the bed.

“You matter too.” The first time I said it I cried it. It shouldn’t have to be either/or—doing work that’s about serving others shouldn’t diminish one’s sense of the importance of meeting one’s own needs. But there’s something about the field of education—especially the subfield focused on equity in education, on helping low-income kids get what they deserve—that creates a culture of martyrs. I think we let ourselves become that because we’re in it in the first place because we see that a whole lot of kids are getting the short end of the stick; that the resources necessary to create the educational experience that all kids should have access to just aren’t there; so we bring ourselves to the table in hopes of filling the gaps; and we end up stuffing our fingers in ten holes and then pulling out our toes to fill in ten more and then sticking an elbow in here and a shoulder in there. We come because we are compassionate, and we have a belief in fairness, and we know the benefits of making it. We come to be of use. But we run ourselves dry—we all do, I watch it happening all around me, in my own organization and in others, among my friends from graduate school, within sister agencies and the schools we work in. We run ourselves dry because the kids are so fabulous, and the resources so unfairly in short supply, and the meaning of every day so evident. We find purpose in the work. We are like missionaries. We believe that to turn away from our work would be like turning a cheek to God. The work feels sanctified. And for those of us, like me, who’ve done more mundane work in the past, that quality of the work is enthralling. It’s like we’ve drunk from a divine fountain and now shun any return to regular water.

Except we get exhausted. Except we put the rest of our lives on hold. Except those of us, like me, who are intellectuals find the work so much more stimulating to the heart than to the mind. I feel guilty wanting to get something out of it too (shouldn’t it be enough that the kids get all these wonderful experiences?), but I can’t help wishing for that. It’s my nature. This is my constitution. I’m empathetic, yes, but even more so I seem to be academic. I need to be learning.

And yet the work is so satisfying to the heart.

I can talk myself in circles. But no matter how long I do that, I know, deep down, that a few things are true. First, I know what I told my boss, and he told the board, and for a time, everyone in the organization repeated it: for the kids to thrive, the staff has to thrive. Second, I know what it takes to make me thrive, and it’s not what I’ve been doing. What it takes to make me thrive includes thought work and continual learning. Third, I MATTER TOO. I know that part, but it gets lost so easily. Because fourth, this work can lay on a thick layer of guilt. It feels selfish to choose my own wants over what 900 kids or five schools or the whole of three communities need. It IS selfish. But there will be someone else to fill my shoes. And I will find other ways to help. I know from the headaches and the snapping at co-workers and the biting off my best friend’s head that I need to find other ways.

And so I have come to a conclusion. I matter more than any job. It’s hard to say that without feeling awful, but I, my wellbeing, my sanity and my physical health and even my intellectual and emotional joys—they matter too. I will find another way to take part in this work in which I believe so strongly. I will find new shoes to fill.

As a first step, tomorrow I will quit.

I will let it all go. And so, I hope, will come at least self-love, if not, perhaps, other types of love too.