Sometimes self care means quitting

All I have ever dreamt of was proving to the world I was worth it’s coins—until it started consuming me in the most unpleasant ways. 

There is no greater feeling than knowing you are doing good work, especially as a woman in a male dominated field. I have felt that for years, pursuing social justice, civic engagement and access to information for marginalized communities in my country.

Everyone who knows me knows how dedicated I was to my job. Almost all my adult life I paraded myself as the ‘voice of the voiceless’, living and breathing journalism, disseminating information as a public good in whatever way possible. 

The hunger in me to do my work was too hard to satisfy, and whether I was burning to a crisp or not, it didn’t matter as long as I was doing my job.

I remember vividly back in 2013 when I stepped into the newsroom for the very first time—a dream come true. Unemployment was at unprecedented levels in Zimbabwe, and getting a job fresh from journalism school was no mean feat. 

I was to become a correspondent at a community newspaper in my home town, Masvingo, which meant leaving family in Zimbabwe’s capital, Harare to go stay alone.

Regardless, I took my role too seriously, never getting used to seeing my byline on several stories in the newspaper every week—it felt surreal. I still keep a few newspaper cuttings of my stories.

I was bent on impressing my editors, so I developed a routine that never allowed me to have any free time. 

There were days I would leave home at dawn to go cover stories in rural villages and return way into the night, having been on my feet all day. Sometimes the subjects of my stories were in hard to reach places, but I had no problem trekking to those remote villages, just to tell their stories. To me it was more of an obligation than a job. I learnt to go for hours without eating anything because of that, sometimes only remembering I hadn’t eaten the whole day when I got home at night. The drive to do more kept growing with each published story, making me push harder. Nothing felt enough.

Receiving my first journalism award was confirmation that I was going into the right direction. While colleagues, friends and family celebrated me, I still felt like I was merely getting started. Some of my colleagues were already on the third, fifth, some even 13th award so mine felt like a drop in the ocean. 

For my second award, my entry was named Best Social Impact Story, which further reinforced my passion for solution journalism. Women vendors at a fruit and vegetable market had had toilets built for them because of that story, as they had for a long time resorted to open defecation. But I still wanted more.

The story also got me a job at another growing community newspaper. I began introducing myself as Theresa ‘so and so newspaper’ rather than my surname—that’s how desperate for growth I was.

I was promoted to be the news editor for that newspaper, managing the newsroom and mentoring younger writers and interns. The promotion also came a year and half into me being a wife and mother for the first time, piling more responsibilities on me, but I was superwoman, wasn’t I? I passed as many chances of taking a break from work as possible for fear of being left behind.

My subordinates and mentees knew I wanted nothing but results. I wasn’t just being hard on myself, I wanted everyone to have the same urgency. 

With Covid-19 came the migration from mostly printed copy to digital platforms, which meant being on my phone and laptop day and night. I didn’t care what time it was, as long as I delivered the results. 

People in my country don’t talk about the so called ‘incompetency’ in women leadership in hushed tones—they get too loud for comfort,  and I was hell bent on proving them wrong.

2023 general elections in Zimbabwe almost turned me into a zombie from exhaustion—still jet-lagged from a long overseas trip, I got home to my very sick child but I had to drop everything to go lead my newsroom elections observer team. 

By the end of that week, my feet hurt so much I couldn’t wear shoes, coupled with migraines from hell, obviously from sleep deprivation. None of that mattered because I believed I was called to do this job. 

Late nights, early mornings, long hours, skipping meals, always traveling, endless Zoom meetings that went well into my sleep time, stress, I was in for all of it—until I wasn’t….

My baby had just turned eight months old when the migraines started. I was sitting on my desk, all alone in the building working into the night when suddenly, my head started spinning. I tried, with little success to ignore it, went home and slept it off.

I didn’t even talk about it with anyone, because that would mean someone suggesting that I needed rest, like they always did.

And so I endured. 

More long hours, late nights, a messed up sleep routine, and yet the pain persisted. 

On a flight coming back from Europe one fateful evening I collapsed. It was a scary experience, and I knew what all this was, but I had no time for that. Superwomen don’t do that, do they? I thought I could juggle being unwell like everything else. I’d never been so wrong!

Things started going south from that incident. My mentor tried her best to warn me about not taking my health seriously, but she passed on soon after(may her dear soul rest in peace) , sending me on a pedestal. I didn’t even give myself the chance to grieve; I was just too busy.

Nights became more and more gruesome, but come morning, shoulders pushed back, head held high I would show up in that newsroom like a warrior, fighting battles no one knew about.

Then came the diagnoses….

It was like everything that could go wrong in my body was doing so. Doctors’ visits became regular, and I would try to lie myself out of being put on bed rest. I succeeded most of the times. 

But then I became less and less productive, which I attributed to my not being fully present. The hunger was still there. 

I showed up to places to do my work looking like I had just survived a plane crush, and one day after nearly collapsing on a podium giving a presentation, I wobbled out to the bathroom to black out in peace. My fear of being judged grew, and I didn’t want the pity. I was not about to be all vulnerable and mushy to somebody, superwomen do not do that!

A few months ago, still struggling with my deteriorating health, I came across a self care article on LinkedIn. I was desperate to find some guidance on how I could do things better because my productivity was suffering. 

As I went further into the article, it dawned on me that in 12 years, I had never really taken a real break. For goodness’s sake, I even joked about how I had a Zoom meeting while in hospital at the onset of labour, about to give birth. Superwoman, right? Wrong. 

Even during public holidays I would find a way to try and do some work. Right in the face, it hit me that I had never stopped to listen to my body, and in the process I had become an anxious wreck. It hit me that I was actually fighting for my life!

I broke down in tears, realizing that what I was reading was exactly what the doctors had been telling me all this time, and it now felt like it was too late. I had been diagnosed with some chronic things, that I had tried to ignore if it wasn’t for the pain. 

That night I journaled my heart out, with tears in my eyes, especially at the thought that there was nothing ‘superwoman’ about me—if I wound up dead the next morning I would be replaced with so much ease. 

In bold letters, there in my journal I wrote ‘I AM HUMAN. HUMANS NEED REST’. Clearly, for years I had strived to be the machine and banner of endurance thinking bearing what I thought was perfect womanhood on my back made me a hero. 

I didn’t realize that perfection is not heroism, but humanity is. Not prioritizing rest is not heroism. Humanity is.

I had forgotten how to live, how to do the things I loved and most importantly how to be myself anymore. 

I began to be intentional about rest, making up time to simply breath. I even learnt how to crochet and started writing fiction. The more I rested, the clearer my mind became. Who am I to deny myself rest when God himself took a day off?

And so, two months from that day I woke up and took a very bold step—I quit my job to focus on me.

I was finally at peace with not wanting to be everything for everyone while I died a slow, painful death. I finally chose myself.

I will not lie and say my mind is now at a hundred percent where I want it to be, but I know I’m headed in the right direction. I’m learning to sleep for eight hours straight, and on nights I do, I wake up feeling really good.

Livelihood? That will take care of itself because if quitting my job today means starving tomorrow, then all those years were for nothing.

I believe choosing myself doesn’t take away my power, rather, it reinforces it. It gives my voice more meaning, because filling my cup before I pour into others is the best I can do to serve them.

Do I love journalism any less, Absolutely no. Will I ever come back? Definitely yes, after I have figured out how not to burn myself up to a crisp again. Until then, I crochet, sleep, read funny stories, play games with my little girl, write fiction, watch movies, blog, get a social life and preach about the biggest act of rebellion women can ever partake—rest!