I Went to Work the Day I Had My Daughter

Let that sit for a moment.

The week before, I had a medical emergency—a preeclampsia scare that could have killed me. But I still went back to work. I still showed up, because that’s what I thought I had to do. Because rest felt like a luxury. Because I didn’t want to let anyone down. Because I had internalized the lie that my worth was tied to my output.

I wasn’t okay, but I kept pushing.

Just days after a medical scare, I posed for this photo holding blocks that spelled out LAILA. Smiling on the outside, while my body was waving red flags.

And I went to work that day not just because of pressure—but because I didn’t want to be alone. No one was home, and I didn’t have friends or family nearby. My mom was actually scheduled to fly in that day for my daughter’s delivery—a trip she’d planned months in advance, thinking she’d have a few days before my due date. But life had other plans. Work, as exhausting as it was, felt safer than sitting in silence.

Taken the weekend after my emergency—this was me, pregnant, still pushing, still performing, still trying to convince myself I was okay.

Looking back, I realize just how deeply we need community—not just in crisis, but always. The kind of community that reminds you you're not alone. That you’re held. That your rest matters.

This isn’t just a personal story. It’s a reflection of what so many of us experience—especially Black women and caregivers. We’re praised for being strong, but rarely asked if we’re safe. Or supported. Or even surviving.

This is why I do this work.

Burnout isn’t just about stress. It’s about systems. It’s about survival. It’s about what happens when we’re forced to carry more than we should, without enough care to carry us.

Postpartum. No glam, no filters—just me and my baby girl. I was still recovering, still isolated, and still trying to figure out how to ask for help.

If you’re reading this and nodding your head—if you’ve ever pushed past the warning signs because you didn’t feel like you had a choice—I see you. You’re not alone.

We deserve better.

We deserve support.

We deserve to burn bright—not out.

This is what survival and joy can look like at the same time. Still standing. Still soft. Still here.

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