Recently, I had one of the most successful weeks in my career as an English professor while secretly dealing with some of the worst depression and anxiety I had ever experienced. I hosted a world-renowned scholar at my institution, published an article, and was offered a contract for an academic book. Truly, everything I ever dreamed of came to fruition for my career.But I could hardly enjoy it, let alone appreciate it the way I hoped.
My personal relationship with work comes from my parents. We came to this country from the Dominican Republic when I was six. My father worked many labor-intensive jobs to make ends meet. In the early 90s, he was a “delivery boy” in mid-town Manhattan; in the early aughts, he was a “helper” for a juice distribution company; in the last years of his life, he, in his own words, “settled down,” and drove a cab. My father took me to all these jobs, modeling for me how to make it in this country.
As the oldest of my siblings, I became the one in my family who checked off the list of first accomplishments: first to graduate high school, first to go to college, first to get a doctorate, and first to become a professional. I did this with a sense of responsibility for my family, my students, and the future of my profession without thinking much about my own physical and mental health. On most nights, I wake up in a pool of cold sweat.
Don't mean to be a Debbie Downer, but have u had scans for pancreatic cancer?