With two near-death cardiac episodes within the year, I’ve come to understand capacity in a way I never could have imagined. After months of being bedridden and my hospitalization in January, the conditioning of “being strong” was killing me. It broke my illusion of productivity revealing: hyper-independence will kill me.
As a Black, queer, disabled person, capacity isn’t just about whether I can work; it’s about surviving a world that demands performance while denying care. I define capacity as one’s ability to output physical, mental, and spiritual productivity. Rest is not just sleep; it’s a restorative practice. However in a capitalist society that prioritizes profitability, it becomes more taxing to survive the more marginalized identities you hold. Rest, in a culture that centers whiteness and capitalism, is often treated like a luxury, not a birthright.
Before I had language for disability justice, I survived because of my community. My friend, author Kate Pentecost, extended me kindness and grace which saved my life. I could recover from three physical assaults at a global retailer, PTSD, and depression. She gave me room to begin to process and recognize the trauma I experienced. Shamir, creator of Black On The Vineyard, flew down from New Jersey to Texas to help me finish packing and move after I was discharged. I would not exist today if it wasn’t for community. In times where your capacity and resources are low, community care covers the cracks designed for marginalized people to fall through. When reflecting on being held by community Angel, the creator of Sacred Space for Fat Bodies, shared, “I rest…[and] I’m free to pray before even thinking about trauma…”
That kind of care is radical in the face of a culture that demands you grind and hustle. The scrutiny disabled Black people face in the workplace is compounded by racial bias, gender expectations, and assumptions about strength. I am still suffering from job loss after returning from medical leave at Varsity Tutors. Before my termination, I told them I couldn’t speak on calls due to extreme shortness of breath, a symptom of my heart condition. Instead of accommodations, I was met with silence and dismissal. Angel adds: “If you’re sick and tired, there’s no way you can do good work.” Shug Diddy, WDRB & iHeart Radio Host, shared: “In professional spaces, I get overlooked…[and] your work is always suspect.”
My redefining capacity, reclaiming my right to softness, to pause, to rest came easy due to my exposure to community and thought leaders I admire. Imani Barbarin, Roxane Gay, Audre Lorde, and Bassey Ikpi, have all contributed to my understanding. Performing productivity has been isolating, but being honest about my needs has been the balm that restores my soul.
“An ideal world would consist of conscious accommodations for all people,” Shamir affirms. Community care remains essential, especially for Black people managing chronic conditions. That care restores, expands, and sustains the capacity for everyone to show up as their best selves.
Brandon Jerrod (they/them) is a writer, photographer, and digital content creator whose work explores the intersections of Blackness, queerness, disability, and community care. Their practice blends storytelling, spirit work, and cultural critique to create inclusive and transformative narratives.
About Rooted In Rights
Rooted in Rights exists to amplify the perspectives of the disability community. Blog posts and storyteller videos that we publish and content we re-share on social media do not necessarily reflect the opinions or values of Rooted in Rights nor indicate an endorsement of a program or service by Rooted in Rights. We respect and aim to reflect the diversity of opinions and experiences of the disability community. Rooted in Rights seeks to highlight discussions, not direct them. Learn more about Rooted In Rights