The Chair That Held Me

I’ve read the message more than once, sitting in this broken office chair. The one with cat scratches on the faux leather and the busted pneumatics that drop me closer to the floor every time I sit. It’s been doing that since my son started jumping into my lap after long days. A joyful collision that breaks things a little, but always reminds me I’m still loved.

This is the chair where I write. Where I’ve trained others over Zoom. Where I drafted public speeches and organized thoughts into movement. It’s where I sit during virtual interviews. It rides low to the ground, like me most days. But it has held me through everything. I was hoping this time my passion would, too.

While I was applying, while I was preparing, while I was hoping, the rest of my life was quietly coming apart. My house was under contract with a cash buyer, but on closing day, we learned we’d walk away with almost nothing and nowhere to go. We’ve restarted the process with a real agent, trying to sell on the open market. But the clock is ticking. A little over a month before the courts step in. This role felt like it might stop the unraveling—not fix it, just slow the fall. Give it meaning. Tie the weight to something larger than survival.

When I submitted my application, I let myself believe—really believe—that the years I’ve spent showing up unpaid and uninvited might be seen not as passion, but as strategy. That someone would look at the scaffolding I’ve quietly built across this place, out of words, out of pain, out of hard-earned joy and say, yes, yes , yes! That’s the kind of builder we need!

I also know this, an echo doesn’t stop just because no one answers. The stories I’ve written have moved policy. They’ve reached decision-makers. They’ve turned silence into courage. The door knocks, the testimonies, the rallies, I didn’t do them for a title. I did them because I had to. Because if I didn’t, no one else would.

So yes, I’m disappointed. I won’t pretend otherwise. Right now, I hurt inside, but I’m still here. Still writing. Still organizing. Still sitting in this cat scratched, sagging chair that’s held more truth than a fucking boardroom ever will. It proves I am loved. It holds my grief. It is power that doesn’t require perfect posture.

I need time to figure out what’s next. Whether I can keep showing up while the floor keeps shifting under me. But know this: I still believe in the work. I just hoped I’d get to help build it from the inside.