Field Notes No. 001

When You Can No Longer Carry It

The hardest part wasn't losing the job.

The hardest part was sitting at home afterward.

A few weeks ago, I was let go from the goat farm where I'd been working. The reason wasn't complicated. My foot was injured, and the injury wasn't improving. The work required someone who could walk, lift, carry, bend, and move quickly. I couldn't do those things anymore.

The practical reality was obvious. The goats still needed fed. The gates still needed opened. The water still needed checked. Animals don't wait for someone to heal.

But I was surprised by how much the situation hurt me.

Not because I loved the job more than any other job I've had. Not because of the paycheck. Not even because of the routine, though I miss that too.

It hurt because of what the situation revealed.

Since the injury, I've spent a lot more time sitting still than I'm used to. My husband is carrying more than he should. My mother is helping me with tasks I should probably be helping her with. Every day seems to contain some small reminder that I am not currently capable of doing things that once required no thought at all.

The foot hurts.

But that isn't the wound.

The wound is realizing how much of my identity was tied to being capable.

For most of my life, my value has had a physical component to it. As a dancer, my body was my instrument. Later, it became my ability to produce, solve, create, organize, build, manage, and carry. Even at the farm, there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing I could handle difficult things. I could lift the bucket. Move the gate. Finish the task.

I could be useful.

The older I get, the more I wonder how many women have built entire identities around that word.

Useful.

Not intentionally.

Slowly.

Over decades.

We become the dependable one. The helper. The caretaker. The woman who remembers things. The woman who notices what everyone else missed. The woman who steps in when something needs done.

People come to rely on us. Eventually, we come to rely on it too.

There is comfort in being needed. There is clarity in having a role. There is security in knowing exactly where your value comes from.

Until one day that role changes.

A job ends.

A child leaves home.

A marriage shifts.

A diagnosis arrives.

A parent dies.

An injury happens.

And suddenly the thing that introduced you to yourself is no longer available.

I think that's what I've been grieving.

The realization that if usefulness is where I've always gone looking for proof of my worth, then what happens when usefulness leaves the room?

I've spent weeks sitting with that question.

Not answering it. Just noticing it.

Noticing how uncomfortable it is to need help. Noticing how quickly my mind searches for evidence that I'm still contributing enough. Noticing how easily worth and productivity become tangled together.

I suspect many of us carry some version of this.

Maybe it isn't usefulness for you.

Maybe it's beauty.

Maybe it's motherhood.

Maybe it's achievement.

Maybe it's being the strong one.

Maybe it's being the person everyone depends on.

Whatever the thing is, I think most of us have something we've quietly mistaken for our identity.

And sometimes life has a way of placing its hand directly on that thing.

Not to punish us. To reveal it.

That's what this season has been for me.

A painful revelation.

One that started with an injured foot but turned out to be about something entirely different.

I'm still untangling it.

Love, Jenee'