3 years ago, I started experiencing dizzy spells. I compared these disorienting moments to Victorian-era women who fainted due to tight corsets and pregnancy. But I was neither pregnant nor wearing a corset. When I couldn’t ever seem to get warm enough, I wore more sweaters and jackets. I attributed my dwindling energy to being in my 30s.
I napped regularly. I scheduled my most important meeting in the morning when my energy levels were at their highest. I did more strength workouts and skipped cardio because my heart couldn’t handle the rapid movement. I stopped drinking alcohol when my body seemed unable to process even one beer. And eventually, I quit my stressful job to create more energy for life.
After 2 years of experiencing these symptoms, I finally went to a doctor. I was severely anemic. My abnormally heavy menstrual bleeding had slowly drained my body of necessary red blood cells. I discovered that I had a 3.7cm fibroid in the wall of my uterus. With my symptoms explained, I could heal.
I consumed enough iron supplements to regenerate my red blood cells. While the abnormal bleeding continued, my dizzy spells stopped. I completed cardio exercises energetically. I could drink without fear of a debilitating hangover. I recovered. But how did I survive for years with anemia? I “managed.”
“To Manage” is the Nigerian way to say “making a way out of no way.” It’s a shorthand to say we are surviving in an impossible situation. In practice, it means living with insufficient resources and support. I come from generations of Nigerian women who “managed.” My grandmother was a market woman in Lagos who didn’t speak English. She came of age in a colonized country and watched as the language of her ancestors ceased being the lingua franca. Yet, she managed to raise a son who went on to get a PhD in computer engineering.
“Managing” is deep in my DNA. And this political moment calls for “managing”. It asks us to donate to mutual aid funds to help our loved ones pay medical bills in lieu of single-payer healthcare. This moment demands that we mortgage our futures to afford quality education. It incentivizes wealth hoarding in lieu of meaningful safety nets. “Managing” is how we survive in a world where cruelty is the point.
But to quote Fannie Lou Hamer, “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” My life as a tech worker in the Bay Area bears little resemblance to Hamer’s as the daughter of sharecroppers in rural Mississippi. But we both come from a lineage of “making a way out of no way” or “managing.”
However, “managing” is no way to live. We become myopic to our immediate problems. “Managing” requires that we stop feeling the pain of the moment. As we solve urgent issues, we internalize the cruelty of insufficient resources. Our bodies bear the cost. Fannie Lou Hamer died young at 59 of cancer and heart disease. The chronic stress of “managing” slowly degraded her cells, and organs.
“If you are silent about your pain, they will kill you and say you enjoyed it.” - Zora Neale Hurston
I want to stop “managing” before it fully degrades my body. But I’m uncertain of any other way of being. I simply want to weep. I want to wail loud enough that people wonder if I’m ok. So I cry. Years of “managing” pour out of me with each tear. I feel sorrow for all the absent systems and resources. When people politely ask “how I am?”, I respond “weepy.” I make my pain visible. Rather than let “managing” degrade my body, I let my body be a site of lamentation.
My tears do not stop the cruelty. But I bear witness to my own suffering. My laments create space for others to share their pain. They serve as a calling card for others who are grieving. “How are you?” start meaningful conversations about dead loved ones. A coffee order becomes a shared weariness.
For a moment, I am comforted in my tremendous sorrow. I know “managing” is necessary for survival. But I also see the power of lament. It serves as a counterbalance to “managing.” It allows me to recognize unnecessary injustice and suffering.“Managing” ensures I survive, lamenting ensures I live.
Acknowledgement
Thank you to Rye for always being willing to read the first draft and give honest feedback. Thank you to my therapist who helped me identify my ancestral “managing”. A thank you to my ancestors who “managed” when there was nothing else to do.
We are certainly “managing”, but I agree - I’m tired.