Unfit Spaces: Reflections on a Decade of Workplace Trauma
Ideogram. (2024). A cartoon illustration of a Black woman walking out of a job door. Created using Ideogram.
A majority of my elders spent their entire lives working for a single company, even when that organization pissed them off or made them feel disposable. They stayed, clinging to the years they had already invested, but without having much to show for it beyond the title of their position and the name of the entity they served. I often saw elders who wanted to quit but remained in their roles simply to get by—not to get ahead. I never saw them in high-level positions or holding authority.
As a child, I promised myself that my career path would be different. I vowed never to endure a job that treated me as disposable or left me dissatisfied. I refused to accept the idea of enduring unhappiness for survival. This conviction became even more steadfast as I journeyed through becoming a first-generation college graduate and entered the workforce. Yet, despite my efforts, I found myself in roles where I was treated as just a number. The challenges weren’t merely due to being Black in predominantly white workplaces but also encountering toxic dynamics in environments that claimed to serve my community.
The majority of the trauma I faced in my twenties came from working in environments that were, quite frankly, deeply harmful and emotionally taxing. These workplaces often fell far short of the missions they claimed to champion, failing to align with the values they professed. They were ill-equipped to nurture the missions they represented. They became spaces that forced me to confront harsh realities about my worth and the importance of being intentional about the environments I choose to occupy.
The trauma I faced in my 20s largely stemmed from workplaces that were not aligned with their stated missions. They were unfit spaces. Four key experiences stand out as defining moments in my journey, teaching me hard truths about my values and the environments I deserve to work in.
At 23, I was fired from a Black-led nonprofit by a Black executive director who could have guided me but instead dismissed me with the cutting remark, “You should have thought about your livelihood before pissing me off.” This was my first painful lesson, realizing that not all skinfolk are kinfolk. It didn’t deter me from wanting to serve my community, but it taught me to navigate such spaces with caution.
In 2019, I worked for another nonprofit purportedly focused on racial justice. Yet, Black women organizers were often unheard of and undervalued. During a staff retreat, the co-executive director declared, “This is not a Black nationalist organization, and if you don’t like it, you can get the fuck out.” Her words highlighted the disconnect between the organization’s mission and its leadership’s actions. I left, taking my talents elsewhere.
Next, in my journey, I transitioned to government work. For many in my community, a government job represents stability and a chance to build a lasting career. As an analyst, I gained valuable insights into the legislative process, but I quickly discovered that systemic change was often obstructed by the people.
Working in government, in a place where people believe you should stay a while. In my community, landing a government job is seen as an achievement, a role you hold onto for stability and longevity. The position I held, though entry-level, allowed me to serve as an analyst, offering me a valuable opportunity to understand the inner workings of the state legislature. I immersed myself in reading, writing, and engaging with diverse content. Most importantly, I learned what it takes to get bills passed—bills that directly impacted my community.
However, it didn’t take long for me to realize that, just like my experiences in nonprofit spaces, this environment was not safe for someone like me who is deeply passionate about advocating for marginalized communities. It wasn’t that change was impossible; rather, it was often obstructed by those in power—lawyers and policymakers who weren’t genuinely committed to serving their constituents. “Oppression Olympics” would dominate, where often centering Black people and their needs became contentious. I saw firsthand that supporting Black interests wasn’t always prioritized, no matter where I worked.
During this time, the COVID-19 pandemic further exposed the system’s flaws. Our governor was widely praised for his leadership in combating the virus, but the reality for public servants like me was far less commendable. While advocating for the health and well-being of all New Yorkers, we were forced into unsafe working conditions that resulted in many of us contracting COVID. This hypocrisy, combined with my growing disillusionment, made it clear that this was not the place for me.
From there, I moved back into the nonprofit sector, joining an organization that functioned as a consultant for movement groups. I was drawn to the organization's passion and mission. However, internal dynamics soon revealed cracks in the foundation. As staff members pushed to unionize, leadership responded with union-busting tactics and accusatory behaviors that were so unprofessional and harmful that I couldn’t see a future with the organization.
By 2024, I found myself navigating the job market once again, encountering leaders who co-opted missions of progress but were ultimately disconnected from the work required to achieve them. In the last job I️’ve endured, I lasted only four months before resigning—one of three Black women directors to do so within the same year. Even in spaces led by those who looked like us, leadership often operated in ways entrenched in white supremacy rather than liberatory practices that foster growth and healthy environments.
Recently, an elder asked if jobs ever worry about never staying in one job for the long term. They pointed out that my 20s had been marked by a company shift, with no single commitment to a role or organization. My response was clear: I️ just don’t want to settle where I feel I’m sinking. My generation is intentional about refusing to remain in spaces that don’t serve us, even when survival is at stake.
It’s like being in a relationship—if it’s toxic, makes you feel unsafe, stifles your growth, and prevents you from living fully, the best course of action is to reassess and let go. There have been times when I’ve walked away and did not know when the next opportunity will come. Walking away isn’t about failure; it’s about making room for what you truly deserve. I’ve applied this mindset not only to relationships in my life but also to work. Even in the face of trauma from long before I entered the workforce, I know one thing for certain: settling is not an option.
While I do not wish for the experiences I’ve had on anyone else, I know they’ve shaped my resilience and sharpened my understanding for what I want in life. Even if, the transitions have come with a bit of delays. I don’t job-hop out of desire; I do it out of necessity. Each transition has been an act of self-preservation and a step toward reclaiming my worth.
As a Black woman, I know starting over may not always be understood or supported, but it’s a necessary act of courage. Every move I’ve made reflects my refusal to accept less than what I deserve—a refusal to settle in any area of my life. May the path open me for better fit opportunities.
