Psssst… this is part 2. You can read Part 1 here.

I almost died a month ago. And, no, it wasn’t like a falling air conditioner missed my head by a few inches. An undiagnosed ovarian cyst ruptured. Internal bleeding ensued. My diaphragm couldn’t expand to its full capacity because there wasn’t enough space in my abdominal cavity. Twelve hours after Instagramming my workout, I struggled to breathe. I wouldn’t recommend the experience.

After an emergency operation, blood transfusion, and four days in the hospital, I am recovered except for some lingering bruising. My recovery was made possible by dozens of people including:

• my father who picked up his phone at 5 am and advised me to go to the ER, dealt with the health insurance company, and sent me puppy photos 
• my roommate who called 911
• my mother who talked with the surgeon (who, as it turns out, had never treated a transgender patient before)
• my hockey coach and his wife who cared for me for five days in an AirBnB after I was released
• their family who brought us food
• Mylo who ran From the Ground Up independently for several weeks while I recovered
• my other roommates who carried my stuff and helped me walk up the stairs into my apartment when I finally returned home
• Emerson’s Student Accessibility Services who emailed all of my professors after I contacted them while high on pain killers
• my professors who didn’t fail me
• the parents of the children I tutor who gave me time off
• the makers of Esme and Roy, the television show that kept me sane through it all

My biggest fear before moving to Boston in September of 2019 was not making any friends. This is a common problem for people in their 20’s. (This video about making friends as an adult has over 1.1 million views.) But when shit hits the fan, we need a lot more than just friends to cope. To recover I needed parents to help navigate the health system, adults with the resources to care for me, understanding bosses and professors, and a town with an ambulance service. I focus on community building rather than on individual relationship building because diverse social networks are vital to our survival. 

This is especially true for activists. It shouldn’t be surprising to hear that burnout is a real problem. Although research is ongoing, I couldn’t find clear data on the percentage of activists who experience burnout. Most of the articles focused on cooperate workers’ burnout rather than activists’ or even teachers’ because, well, capitalism. But burnout among activists is a real problem. Vice, NPR, and Bustle have all reported on it. Activism is taxing work that doesn’t pay well if it pays at all. Plus, many activists experience vicarious trauma. I know this feeling. Every time I read a story about police murdering a disabled person or about vulnerable folks with disabilities still waiting to be vaccinated I have to remind myself to breathe. I am relatively privileged as a white disabled person with perfectly functioning lungs, but these stories remind me that society considers bodies like mine to be disposable. 

Activism burnout is not merely a mental health problem. Erica Garner, Eric Garner’s daughter, died when she was only three years older than I am. According to the New York Times article linked above, five BLM activists died between 2016 and 2018. Stress takes a toll on our bodies. Activists break apart bit by bit even as we create the world we want to see. 

How do we prevent this? Self-care is important, but community care is crucial. This isn’t a new concept. The documentary The Black Panthers: Vanguard of the Revolution showed how the Black Panthers fed over 20,000 breakfasts to children per week as part of their free breakfast program. Our movements should mimic the world we want to live in. This means giving members of our activism communities and their children access to basic necessities.

My ruptured ovarian cyst wasn’t caused by burnout. That was merely bad luck. Yet it is an example of the fact that self care only goes so far. No amount of self care would have saved my life last month. My community, in the narrowest and broadest sense of the word, stepped up and rescued me when I needed them the most. Having structured communities is important for everyone. But those of us fighting for a better world must weave ourselves a community safety net so tight that nobody slips through.