by emory

This past weekend, Jo and I went for a hike that ended up being about six miles. For me, that was a long hike, and not something I could’ve done a year ago. But I’ve been building my endurance and strength over time with yoga and long walks, and I’ve been using my cane when I need it (mobility aids for the win!). So, even though the hike wore me out, I was actually able to do it, which was such a thrill.

The weather was gorgeous. We walked past a woman getting her dog in a harness, and she said, “Isn’t this such a beautiful day? Forget everything else, I wish I could have a hundred days just like this. Amen!”

Not sure why she added an amen—maybe she just wanted to thank god for the day. Maybe the real question is why I’m not punctuating more of my thoughts with amen.

As Jo and I hiked, we talked. A lot of our conversation was (predictably) about becoming parents.

[An aside: I moved the seahorse diaries to its own dedicated space. If you’re interested in reading more about my thoughts on T4T family planning, queer parenting, and community building in late-stage capitalism, you can visit the page here.]

More than just the process of growing our family, though, we spent a lot of time talking about labor. I’ve been constantly worrying about the work I do, especially since I’m in a season of life where I’m technically not working. Instead, my days are spent:

• doing classwork—for my alcohol & substance abuse counseling program, plus an additional psychology class

• doing chores—laundry and dishes never stop

• writing—fiction, essays, random scribbles

• taking care of my body—the things that are within my capacity to improve my fertility, like eating well and exercising

• indulging in my hobbies—knitting, making paper beads, quilting, painting, doodling, gardening

It’s been strange, not occupying the breadwinner role. For the early part of Jo’s and my relationship, that was my main function. At the time, I didn’t do as much of the housework, and I felt bad about that; since I am more masculine in my gender expression/experience, I worried about learned incompetence and whether I was shirking responsibility for my own convenience. Now, even though I do more of the housework, I feel guilty for not doing enough.

Jo has been very patient with me as I stress over these feelings of guilt and shame, and he gently reminds me that we are keeping the house in order, we have enough, he enjoys his job and does not worry about me not having one.

A long walk will do wonders for your nervous system, and I was able to shift some of those feelings and examine them as we talked. The guilt that bubbles up in my chest each day seems to be because my days are by and large pleasurable. After my years in corporate, I internalized the idea that it isn’t work if you aren’t suffering, and it’s been difficult to adjust to the idea that I can be performing labor without feeling miserable. Even though I’m not working primarily because I need to reduce my (historically very high) stress levels to support my future pregnancy, the absence of stress was paradoxically stressing me out! I’m so used to my nervous system being on high alert that it’s challenging to relax. And because my housework hasn’t been making me miserable, I’ve felt like it can’t possibly be work—it can’t be a real contribution to our daily life.

I’ve also been feeling guilty because—confession—I don’t want to “work,” not the way I’ve worked under capitalism. I like doing housework. Once we have a child, I want to be a stay-at-home parent. I want to write the shitty first drafts of my novels, to stitch quilts, to tend to my vegetables in the backyard. I worry that these desires reflect some inherent idleness, like I’m lazy and unwilling to contribute.

But why does contribution have to mean capital?

There is labor I currently accomplish that I enjoy, there is additional labor I want to accomplish. I feel called to care work, and I feel called to writing. I feel called to nourish: growing food (however little) to supplement meals, making blankets and sweaters, babysitting. My days are a patchwork of tasks to care for the people I love. My writing fills me with a sense of purpose and satisfaction—I love the struggle of finding the right words to capture what I’m trying to say.

So, I am trying to release the guilt I feel for not conforming to capitalist expectations of work. Because I do dream of labor: I dream of spending my days being caring and creative. I search for ways to support my community, and I find great pleasure in it.

I have to take myself and my labor seriously. That, I believe, is how to find satisfaction in it: having faith that the work matters and being willing to invest myself in it. If I want to be a writer, I have to write. Every day! Even if it’s just for myself. If I want to be a caregiver, I have to take care—of others, of myself, of my community, of my home. Capitalist systems of power are designed to squash that sense of satisfaction, to try to convince all of us that our value is only found in what corporations can extract from us instead of what is freely given. We can love labor—we can enjoy the work of our lives. That love is found in purpose. Being intentional about how you spend your time, being present in your life and your work (no matter what your “job” is), being assured in your offerings. We all must do what is necessary to survive under capitalism—and we must find ways to build systems beyond it. Liberation takes work; we have to dream of labor to dream of liberation.

Instead of shame, I try to focus on gratitude: I am grateful that Jo is able to provide for us financially in a job that brings him satisfaction, which allows me to focus my energy on other ways of providing for us. This season of my life is a gift; each day, I want to wake up and do what I can to care for my community, and shame inhibits that.

These days are beautiful—I wish for a lifetime of them. Amen.