Where I’m At Right Now

because sometimes truth needs a timestamp and radical hope isn’t passive—it’s the fiercest thing I’ve got left.

I need a job.
Not a dream job. Not a calling.
Just a job that pays me enough to keep going.
Because I’m broke.
Because I need to pay for my PhD.
Because I have a vision I believe in with everything in me—
but belief doesn’t cover rent.

I’ve built something beautiful.
Something real.
A body of work that lives at the intersection of trauma, truth, and transformation.
It’s not just theory. It’s my life.
But the truth is—I’m tired.

I’ve spent the last two years trying to create something that could hold me and hold others.
I’ve applied for jobs that say they value lived experience.
I’ve networked, showed up, softened the sharpness of my clarity just enough to be heard.
I’ve tried to fit.
I’ve tried to lead.
I’ve tried to stay in integrity while surviving in systems that were never designed for WildMinds.

And right now?
It hurts.

There’s a job I applied for—connected to a place that once broke me.
I spiraled into autistic burnout there. Called 988.
Left to save my own life.

And still—I'm considering going back.
Because I need a paycheck.
Because they’re still “thinking.”
Because maybe this time would be different.
Because they gave interview questions in advance before, and maybe they’d do that again.
Because I’m tired of fighting to belong and just want to be able to breathe and contribute.

I wish I could just do my own thing.
And in some ways, I have.

But social media wrecks my nervous system.
It’s built for speed, spectacle, and supremacy—not relational depth. Not nuance. Not slowness.
Substack has been a sanctuary.
But the people I write for often aren’t the ones who can afford to pay.
If I put my work behind a paywall, am I betraying my own values?
If I don’t, how do I survive?

I’ve thought about Instacart.
Restaurant jobs.
Anything.
But those environments?
Bright lights. Background noise. Fake smiles.
They break me down.
Sensory chaos and emotional masking drain me until I disappear.
It’s not a matter of preference—it’s a matter of capacity.

And I’ve tried.
God, I’ve tried.
For two years I’ve chased the mirage of a remote, flexible, sustainable job.
But let’s be real:
Those are reserved for people who already have a foothold in capitalism.
Who know the right people.
Who have clean arcs, linear resumes, charisma, palatable stories.

Even the nonprofit spaces that preach equity?
Still built on image management, urgency, and unspoken rules.
I’ve worked in those worlds. I know the cost.

So here I am.
In between.

Holding a body of work that’s powerful and resonant—
and holding a bank account that says you don’t belong here unless you commodify it.
Living in the ache of uncertainty.
Still hoping the next right thing will come if I keep following my integral path.

But here’s the hardest part to say:

I need support.
Not advice.
Not strategy.
Just—support.
Presence. Kindness. Witnessing.

And even now, writing that, I hear the voice of internalized capitalism in my head:
“If you need support, you’re insecure.”

That’s the lie.
The one this world tells the WildMind:
That our needs are flaws.
That our sensitivity is weakness.
That our gifts only have value if they’re easy to digest.

But I know better.
And maybe you do too.

So I’m saying it plainly:
This is where I’m at.
Still here. Still walking. Still believing in something bigger than survival.
But also… needing to survive.

If you're in that place too—
between holding your truth and holding it together—
I see you.
You are not a failure.
You are not too much.
You are not alone.

You are doing sacred work in a world that doesn’t know how to hold it yet.

But I believe it will.
And I believe in you.
And yes—
I still believe in me.