On quitting a “dream” job
In this edition: Listen to your ancestors.
“They will have to amputate both legs”.
I held my phone with the message on the locked screen. I looked at the time and pondered for a few seconds if I should reply to it or call. I was about to go live to record one of the Diverse Orange Talk Show episodes, so I did what I was trained to do best, turn off my emotions, silence my phone and keep working.
I told my co-worker Alex that I had received this message and she encouraged me to feel my feelings. I did for a few minutes, then wiped out the tears, and went live with a fake smile to share about cultural events happening that weekend before playing the pre-recorded interview.
It was February 2022. The message came from my cousin Denys. He was talking about his mom, my aunt Mako. My aunt was the youngest of six. She was the one who didn’t care about properness, about things she enjoyed being culturally acceptable, she was a tiny 5 ft woman, the shortest in my family, but also the loudest and fiercest. She would say stuff out loud that would make everyone cringe, like “I had the best sex last night.” Oh, this is a no-no in a Japanese family.
We lived together when I was about six years old. My parents had built a house on a piece of land they were able to buy from working three jobs and with used wood from my grandparent’s workshop they also helped build a tiny house for my aunt and her family. My cousin was not even two years old when I was playing house with him and found a container with some blue candy under the sink and fed him spoonfuls of it — turns out that was rat poison. Right across our house, there was an open sewage stream, so turns out our parents were taking care of unwanted visitors. If my aunt kept loving me after they had to rush him to the ER for a stomach wash, I just knew right then that our relationship was very special. Denys is fine in case you’re wondering and he is my favorite cousin — not that I owe him that for almost killing him, but because he is all heart and fun.
When my aunt decided to go to Japan to work in factories in 1991 along with a wave of descendants that were given work permits to go back to the motherland, the plan was to work 12+ hours a day and send the money back to support their kids and families. Most people ended up coming back after an average of three to five years. During those years, I was going to say, without cellphones and technology, but actually, those days we barely had landline phones — in countries like Brazil, during the 90s phone lines were a huge investment and privilege. I am not sure how we had one, but we did. I don’t remember speaking to her while she was there, but one of the few memories I managed to hold on to, was receiving Hello Kitty stationery paper from whoever ended up meeting with them there and coming back. I rarely used those papers, they were so special. I kept them in their plastic pack that had a sealing adhesive at the top.
We had a big party when my aunt came back in 1994 and stayed close again. I wish I could remember dialogues from this time, other than her telling me to throw rocks at this woman’s car parked in front of my grandparent’s shop. “It’s her car. It’s her, she is dichan’s mistress. Throw the rock now.” Dichan was what we called my grandpa, who was cheating on my grandma with her *best* friend — yes, a Latin soap opera storyline at its best. I don’t really remember hitting the car, but I remember her rage and how she took justice into her small hands, even while hiding behind a bush with her 10-year-old niece.
Pretty much for the same reason we were throwing rocks at that car, my dad moved out when I was 12. The day it happened my aunt came to my house and told me to pack my things. “Let’s go, let’s go. I don’t want you to see and go through what I’ve gone through.” I had no idea what she was talking about, she got in the house like a tornado and we were out before I could understand, and to be honest, I have no recollection of where we went, but when I came back eventually, maybe the day after, maybe that same night, my mom sat my brother and me on the living room couch and broke the news in the classiest way possible, without telling any of the horrible truths, but sobbing through it all. “Your dad and I are separating, but he is still your dad, I’m still your mom.”
Not only on traumatic days, but during my teen and adult life, she was always present. Aside from family feuds that ultimately created some distance between us, we kept finding each other back again and again. I have this memory of her in a black tube dress, tights and stilettos. Her hair had some extra volume from layers of a fresh cut and the red lipstick was the cherry on top. Auntie looked so empowered. I think she was going out that night and I was babysitting my cousin — no poisoning this time.
I like to close my eyes and see her in that dress sitting on the arm of the sofa, in a season when she had to reinvent herself and recover from betrayal, shame and loneliness. And still, somehow she was pulling off the most fierce, memorable look of all.
When I received the message about her legs having to be amputated my heart sank. She’s been fighting to stay alive for so many years. Diabetes is a bitch, and without a whole lifestyle change, it gets very complicated. My family experienced hunger and poverty, as many immigrants anywhere in the world, so when things got better financially it was hard to pace on food and make better choices. I grew up seeing everyone binge eat, then some, of course, the women, purge or go on a combination of pills and diets, and later on cosmetic surgery.
After going through so much, she realized that we have all been very unhealthy. In the last year, most of our audio messages via WhatsApp ended with her telling me that I should take better care of myself. In July 2021 she texts “I see that you are working a lot. I know you love what you do. But take care of yourself… health is important.” I say she is right and share that I hit three weeks of consistently going to the gym — we all know this gym thing most probably only lasted four weeks, but let’s not go there.
Her amputation happened in February 2022 and in March, during Mel’s spring break, we go to Brazil for a quick family visit. I go see her.
It is hard. We are never ready to see someone we love in such a frail condition. Laying on her side, she is happy to see me, and I am so happy to see her and my cousin and his family. I sit on the floor and we start chatting. I hold her hand. I tell her that I can’t wait for her to feel and get better. She says all she wants is to walk again, to stand on two feet, even if prosthetic ones. She is tired of laying down, she would like to walk again. I hold all my emotions in because I want to be strong for her. I tell her news about work, life in the US, about Mel and Matt . I laugh with my cousin and play with his son, before it’s time to go. It was the last time I saw her, but not the last time we’d spoken.
About over a month after the surgery, I text her: “Hi, auntie! How are you? I’m thinking of you.” She sounds as positive as one can be given the circumstances and other complications, and at the end, she insists “I know you love your work and that you work like a bull, but please remember to rest and take care of yourself and your family.” I am already burnout at that point, so I can’t even send another audio message as my voice would probably tremble, so instead, I type “Yes, I will rest, auntie. Thank you for always reminding me of this. I love you.” She sends me a heart emoji, and that was our last conversation.
Her soul left her overworked and fragile body to be with her mother and big sister.
The other day, during a reiki session, I saw the three of them looking at me. Their arms entwined, a sweet gaze, blessing me and that entire restful moment.
What does this story have to do with me quitting my job?
It has everything to do with it. Even from a long distance, she could see what I wasn’t seeing yet. Rest was never a priority for me, but when we are younger we bounce back much easier. This is not my first burnout, but this is the first time that it happened in a way that is very scary. In a different country, which we’ve been calling home for the last eight years, but where we don’t even have health insurance.
When I made the decision in January this year, my aunt was not physically around anymore, so I couldn’t call, text, or send her a voice message saying that I was quitting in a few months and that my only plan was to rest. But I told her.
In a meditation, I let her know that I’m finally giving myself a break. I also let her know that for real I am going on walks almost every day, I whisper “Auntie, I don’t run fast yet, but I try and I do it for you, and for me, because that’s what you wanted for me, and for you. I’m walking for you, for us. Thank you for loving me through it all, and caring. You cared so much.”
I still have a couple of months ahead before unplugging from this role and have been preparing to allow myself to rest instead of accepting the first job offer that crosses my way. Tricia Hersey, creator of The Nap Ministry, and author of Rest is Resistance, is a wonderful source for understanding the roots of grind culture (yes, it is white supremacy) and deconstructing it, one nap at a time. In the book’s introduction, she makes a powerful statement:
I refuse to push my body to the brink of exhaustion and destruction, let the chips fall where they may. I trust myself more than capitalism. Our refusal will make space for abundance. We will have to leap and trust rest.
Letting go is the hardest part so far. Grief is real for all things, jobs, people, pets, and anything we once loved and have to let go of. But if we listen closely to our ancestors and the universe, and trust our gut, we will know the way. And what I’m finding out is that sometimes the way is a brand new one, one that was never taken before, so it’s scary, but it’s also so, so very exciting.
This print is by Jennifer Parks and it translates my journey so well.
