I cried today. In a zoom meeting. With the registrar, vice-provost, university architect, and sundry others. I don’t cry often. (more Vulcan than Klingon.) I didn’t expect to choke in my words, as I explained that while it’s swell to have more workshops, faculty need

other levels of support. All the usual reassurances about my work are gone. And there’s little to no conversation about well-being. We are islands of intellectualism, being destroyed by a hurricane of screens, emails, and “you’re on mute.”

So, when asked what I thought about the new building or how we can support faculty transitioning, my thought was to those of us staring at another year of painful compromises and honor code violations. Those of us thinking about quitting.

I hate admitting that. It’s probably the stress talking. I’m probably not the only one. I let the words tumble out of me and wiped my wet eyes. My colleagues expressed their support, their sympathy. The burden on my chest remains, still heavy 10 hours later.

Maybe my tears showed them this is real. Maybe they found be pitiable. Maybe they saw I’m a flawed and scared human animal trying to keep warm. Tonight, that’s it. That’s enough. #proflife