In her poem, “won’t you celebrate with me,” Lucille Clifton writes,
come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
I first read these words when I was in college in the spring of 2012. Trayvon Martin had been killed, and I was sitting in a theology course on Genesis and Exodus, grappling with the fact that being a Black woman often meant not feeling safe in this world, in classrooms, and even in our bodies. At the time, the words made me deeply sad and, as my big cousin used to say when I was growing up, they “made my nerves bad.”
I didn’t truly embody these words or know their real impact until 2020. While everyone in the world was weathering the pandemic—during which over 300,000 people died in the United States alone—I was simultaneously struggling with challenges in my own body and navigating higher education as I held space for students whose stories were like mine. At that time, it felt almost impossible to support Black students exhausted from racial battle fatigue at a predominantly white institution. So much uncertainty and doubt played in my mind.
Then my body began to shut down. In 2019, I had started seeing doctors to figure out what was going on, but I didn’t really think anything of these visits until I got a call from my hospital on a Wednesday morning. The medical scheduler shared that I would no longer be meeting with just a neurologist. A neurosurgeon and neuro-oncologist were now joining the call.
Surgeon. Oncologist.

Why on earth would I need to meet with these types of doctors? So many thoughts ran through my mind. That morning changed the trajectory of my life. I started that day leading a healing circle for some of my Black students who were processing the murder of George Floyd, and it ended with me on a call with a team of brain doctors letting me know that they believed I had a brain tumor and sharing a list of options on how to deal with it.
I chose the most modest route: a PET scan to confirm that it was a ganglioglioma, MRIs every three months to assess its growth, seizure medication to prevent me from passing out, and eye exams to check the vision in my right eye due to the pressure the tumor was causing.
Doctor appointment upon doctor appointment upon doctor appointment.
I spent the next three years in and out of these doctors’ offices, trying to find answers and solutions, unable to work in the way I had before. I went from giving TED talks to not being able to get out of bed. From leading students on trips across the country to forgetting to turn my oven off before leaving the house. My entire life flipped upside down, and every dream that I had before felt out of reach. Every accomplishment I had achieved felt like it didn’t matter anymore. Every part of who I was felt like she had disappeared.
Who was I if I could no longer sacrifice my time, my body, and my spirit to my work? What was my purpose if I could not even cook my own food without needing a two-hour nap afterwards? Did I deserve to stay alive if I was no longer a “contributing member of society?” These were the questions I grappled with as I tried to navigate my new normal, my new body.
That season of my life showed me that before I got sick, I had unknowingly tied my entire worth and purpose to my productivity and to being who I was for everybody else, rather than for myself. It showed me that even when I could no longer meet a deadline, drive a friend to the airport, or clean my home without assistance, I was still someone worthy of being here, worthy of care, and worthy of being alive—I was still someone whose purpose mattered beyond the job titles, the promotions, the awards at work. I still had something to offer myself, my community, and my students.
I had my story to offer my students, along with the question I could ask to challenge them and the space I could hold to remind them that they deserve to care for themselves. As Tricia Hersey writes,
“You were not just born to center your entire existence on work and labor. You were born to heal, to grow, to be of service to yourself and your community, to practice, to experiment, to create, to have space, to dream, and to connect.”
And this profound insight was something I was able to remind them of after my illness.
And what a gift that is. To know that we are inherently deserving of love. That no matter what we can or cannot contribute to society, our worth is not determined by our output. We are here for a reason. We are called to lives of purpose—not because of what we produce, but simply because we are.
This lesson was important for me to learn before entering my current stage of life—the one I have always been called to: supporting Black students by standing alongside them in my advocacy for their right to education, and to be treated justly while receiving one.

Have you encountered something in your life that brought you to this kind of realization? A lost job, divorce, a sick child, or a moment in which you lost your sense of self, not knowing if the things trying to kill you would indeed fail. Maybe that moment hasn’t yet come. When it does, I hope you remember that your purpose was never dependent on your productivity.
In the past few years, I’ve been grounded in my calling and who I am meant to be. I’ve been honoring my body and the ways it shows up—honoring the fact that something continues to try to kill me and continues to fail. All the while, I continue to create spaces for minoritized students to be together with one another and to grapple with the weight of the world, through programs, experiential learning trips, and seminars. Helping guide students to themselves so that when they leave the institution I work at, they know who they are meant to be and what they are called to.
Readers interested in reflecting further on the impact illness can have on vocation exploration and discernment will find these previous posts on Vocation Matters worth reading: “Reclaiming Vocations: Finding Purpose Amidst Loss,” by Debbie Minsky-Kelly; “Navigating Vocations with a Chronic Illness,” by Deanna A. Thompson; and “Deanna Thompson on This Vocation Now,” by Stephanie L. Johnson. Those interested in reading more about how racism can constrain vocation should check out Michelle Oyakawa, “W.E.B. DuBois’s Vocational Legacy: Inspiring Justice and Advocacy,” and “The Problem with Colorblind Mentoring,” by Hannah Schell.
Danielle Harris (she, her) is an educator, poet, and organizer, who believes in the power of storytelling within historically marginalized communities. Danielle currently serves as the associate director for racial equity in the Intercultural Community Center at Occidental College, where she supports student programming, advising, and advocacy for student communities while centering Black students on campus. Prior to Occidental, Danielle worked in gang intervention supporting those who have been impacted by our carceral system. Danielle holds an MS in college counseling and student development, as well as a BA in sociology and ethnic studies from Azusa Pacific University. When she’s not working, you can find Danielle on a plane, performing poetry on stage, scrolling endlessly on Instagram, riding her bike Alfonso, or cuddling with her pit bull Huey.










