The Privilege in the Pause

"Stillness is not the enemy. Change is not the enemy. We don’t have to outrun our lives.” - Octavia Raheem

Welcome to The Pivot. Part journal, part newsletter — where I share what I'm living, learning and questions that I need to ask myself to keep moving forward. It's for those who are feeling the call to make a move, to shift. It's a reminder that we don't have to jump off a cliff — we just need to turn our bodies slightly and start the tiniest pivot. And still, those small movements can be the hardest ones to make.

So I figure I would share my journey so we can do it together. And, if I didn’t mention it before, I'm really glad you're here.

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Good morning.

Timeout. Huddle. Debrief. The names differ but the intent is always the same. The way to move forward is to stop. It is an ancestral practice. Sankofa, is a Twi word of the Akan tribe in Ghana, where the word is broken down into three: SAN (return); KO (go); FA (look, seek and take). The symbol is represented by a mythical bird, whose feet are firmly planted and facing forward but the bird has turned its neck backward to pick up an egg.

“it is not taboo to fetch what is at risk of being left behind.” For the anxious people like me in the back, let me translate- “I know you have stuff to do but go sit down and have several seats.”

Yet despite the various ways this lesson presents itself in our lives, this continues to be my biggest challenge. The eldest daughter sees family and friends on fire everywhere and is trained from young to extinguish it immediately. The young physician is trained to never sleep soundly, so they can wake up at the familiar sound of a “Code Blue” resuscitation and save a life. However, both situations require, even if brief, a moment of silent reflection of the present before attempting to change the future.

And when the present is frightening, it is easy to want to ignore it. The slow and deliberate genocide in Gaza, with the most recent tactic of a man-made famine from the blockade of food aid. The indiscriminate kidnapping of neighbors and friends in across the United States without due process. The repeal of reproductive rights. The attacks on access to healthcare. The loss of the ability to live and work in peace after fleeing your country because of unrest, violence and/or natural disaster.

It’s hard to look back. It’s hard to even think what a future solution could be. I’m finding the answer is in slowing down the scene and pressing the pause button. And for those of us who are granted this privilege, we must do so for those who can’t. We must see the forest for those who are on the inside just focused on trying to avoid falling trees.

So I attempted an exercise yesterday morning.

I wake up and stretch my arms. Squinting my eyes as the sun sprays its light throughout my bedroom.

Here's what I saw. The leaves outside are sitting surprisingly still. The exercise bike in my room is waiting patiently for me. I see a blanket pouring over my feet, creating a cream-colored ocean on the grey sheets.

I catch a glimpse of my long fingers with sinewy veins strewn down my hands into my wrists. The brown skin that overlays them is smooth and unblemished.

I turn right to see the lamp that always begs me to stay alit just a little more, even though it knows I need to sleep. I can almost see it grinning mischievously when it gets its way, yet again, convincing me to read another page of that book or listen to a few more minutes of that podcast.

On the side is the chair that I borrowed (some say stole) from my first daughter's room. It is a mauve color, and it is where I breastfed her for so many months. It's so comfortable. It embraces you and then when it reclines, it captures you and is unwilling to let go. The chair is heaven, and the usual place where my writing is birthed, so it had to stay with me. I wish I had enjoyed it more when I first bought it, but there was never time to take in the present. I was so worried that I wasn’t feeding my daughter enough, that I never even noticed how the chair could soothe the fear and worry that was plaguing me at the time.

My feet emerge from the blanket, hesitant and brave. In the morning, they are very sensitive to touch, the tingling swiftly transforming into pressure. The back of my legs are also speaking to me in the morning in an interesting pulsation language. It feels like fire, but doesn’t burn. This constant heat was quite painful in the beginning and probably still is, but I've become accustomed to it.

I take in all of these things here in my room, then take a breath. It is a moment that I have collected in time to reclaim my life and create a vision. A practice to ensure that the things I witness know that l will ensure they no longer go unnoticed.

How many opportunities for pause have I missed? And how many places and people that we truly care about have gone unnoticed as a result? How many problems never get a chance to truly be solved because we are pushing instead of preparing?

I’ve never wanted to slow down. Even in high school, when I ruminated, “yes, I am going to do this doctor thing”, I kept telling myself to go as fast as I could. I feared that if I stopped, I would be consumed with how challenging and overwhelming the journey. I feared I would stop and never recover the momentum to restart,

At 21 years old, after driving quickly to the destination of completing medical school, I realized I had never taken time to look out the window. I never once pulled over at a rest stop. Never spent time having a conversation with interesting strangers. So I find myself in a new place and a new time but relatively unchanged.

I’m starting to believe that the trips of life we are allowed to experience are not about where we are going but who we become when we finally arrive. To see this requires us to step back. In the past, I considered this reflective work superfluous— a loss of precious time — but the seriousness of this work has finally revealed itself to me. An aging body and a mind heavy with thought have compelled me to move more cautiously, no longer taking the small moments for granted.

Before moving, I succumbed to legs that ache. Limbs that need to be flexed, pointed and even massaged. To remember plans and responsibilities, I now need to close my eyes and stand still, trying to recall why I walked into a room. I have even delayed making connections, knowing that my cup is overflowing with roles of parent, provider, patient, daughter, sister-friend, comforter, teacher, boss and my personal favorite, aunty. I keep being divided among those who surround me and constantly ask for pieces of me.

And if I don't slow down and become intentional, I find myself disappearing.

Even to put this on the page, I’m breathing deeply in between the words. They come at a slower pace but are still profound.

This is all extraordinarily slow for a born-and-bred New Yorker.

Extraordinarily stable for the daughter of Nigerian immigrants.

Extraordinarily calm for a Black woman living in America.

When I step back, look around and see myself still standing both in the midst and the mess, I discover my own extraordinary. Here, we can finally uncover the versions of ourselves that passed us by. We locate the messages that were bestowed upon us and advice given, that we never made space to hear.

God, there's a privilege in the pause. There’s sanctity in the stop.

Now, when I am blessed to behold it or forced to face it, I am trying not to complain. I'm finding there is so much to cherish in the discomfort of moving gradually, yet with precision. It is uncanny how this measured pace that used to irritate my younger self has now become the source of my comfort. It is a path to steadying myself in a world that refuses to see people, and instead, sees only what it can drain from us.

In this time of worldwide strife, I am learning to hone the ability to reflect and find the good, so I can disseminate my discovery to others. So we have the skill and the stamina to do the work not just for a moment but for a lifetime.

So we must listen closely to hear our lives, as they whisper, “wait, breathe, look”.

This week, I hope you hear that voice, absorb the words and slowly make them come true. We may still be going towards the same place, but we must work on going as different people. Tired but transformed. Wearier but wiser.

As usual, please let me know what you’re working on leaving behind, what you’re running towards, or what you’re navigating in the now. Remember, we can never be sure where we end up, but rest assured, it’s going to be a story that we all can learn from.

To powerful pivots,

-O

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