FM Weekly 3.39

2 October 2022

content notice for this issue: Black mental health, racism, colonization, pregnancy criminalization

My parents do not know what I do. They love me dearly, are proud of me in the abstract, and for that I am endlessly fortunate, but they do not have any idea about my work or my passions and they haven’t since I started college in 2003. Last week I sat at a table where my father said he’d need to call his “nurse friend” if my grandfather’s home dialysis caused any trouble, and my mother stumbled saying the words “nurse practitioner” when describing a recent APN psychiatric provider they really like. When I was squeezing in reading for my doctoral classes between family activities, both of my parents commented that I “never stop working” and that I “read too much,” wholly confused in hearing me explain what is involved in getting a PhD or the additional publishing and advocacy work I squeeze in otherwise. I’ve tried to describe my current Board and training work in abortion care, and that similarly leads to frustrating ends in conversation. Add in my current ethics work, and it’s a lost cause.