I went to see Sinners again.
Shout out to the Kametaphysics Sacred Alchemy channel on YouTube for offering a lens that hit me right in the spirit: the vampires in the film aren’t just monsters—they’re archetypes. Reflections of our inner demons, trapped thoughts, and inherited beliefs that keep us stuck, disconnected from our purpose.
That stuckness is something I know intimately.
If you’ve been following my career journey, you know I’ve been in and out of the public school system since 2018. I have not been an angel in every space, and I’ve had my fair share of struggles—with systems, with authority, and with myself.
But the best places I’ve worked gave me room to be human. They made space for questions and pushback, honored creativity, and saw the people behind the work.
Shout out to Dr. Robert Randolph Jr., the first boss who allowed me to simply be. Shout out to the entrepreneurs and collaborators who recognized my value before I did—not just for my skills, but for my spirit.
When I stepped into those spaces, I felt seen.
When I stepped into public school systems, I felt sacrificed.
It never felt free. It never felt like “a calling.”
It felt heavy. Oppressive. Like something I had to survive.
And every time I left, I felt lighter.
But the world tells us, “That’s what working is.”
You endure. You survive. You retire.
I wrestled with that deeply.
How could I know that life-giving work exists, and still be told it doesn’t?
We’re taught not to trust ourselves. Not to trust our desires.
We’re told that struggle is holy, especially if we work with children. That it’s selfless. That it’s a calling.
But what happens when your lived experience conflicts with your so-called calling?
I now understand that multiple things can be true.
Yes, I served a purpose in those classrooms. Yes, I learned.
But there was also exploitation.
And yes—I stayed longer than I should have because of spiritual bypassing dressed up as duty.
We are expected to pour endlessly with no thought to our own humanity.
A few resources. A celebratory week. But no raise.
We are told not to complain—because “the children need you.”
In 2023, I mentally broke down.
I was working full-time and still struggling to make it through the month. Paid on the 1st, and by the time bills were covered, I was lucky if I had $300 left. No kids. A minimal lifestyle. And still—barely getting by.
But I was taught to be quiet. To be grateful.
To believe that my desire for more was selfish.
How was anyone else surviving?
I kept showing up. Smiling. Pushing through.
The stress wore me down. Eventually, I quit.
That decision—along with everything that followed—led to my eviction and brought me to where I am now: living with family.
I deeply admire the teachers who raised me with love while navigating their own private storms.
I tried to do the same.
Even when exhausted, I tried to love my students well.
Tried to keep the space calm and grounded—because the environment around me wasn’t.
By 2024–2025, I found myself in a familiar situation.
This time, I didn’t have so many expenses going out.
This time, I’d have some cushion to breathe.
This time, I was starting at the beginning of the school year.
But the problems were systemic.
Different school, same reproduction of the beast.
I tried a new approach: focus on what you can control. Leave the rest at the door.
Teaching is holy—but it is also demanding.
You don’t just teach content.
You teach while managing a room full of young souls: reading them, nurturing them, disciplining them, protecting them.
You become part-parent, part-therapist, part-lighthouse.
And it takes a toll.
On top of the usual load, I was now battling people who were supposed to be guides.
Before I left, my hair was falling out.
I was emotionally eating.
I was depleted.
So I started shifting.
Coming in early or staying late—but not both.
Saying no. Taking my weekends back.
Listening to my body.
In April of this year, I was suspended with pay until the end of the school year—“insubordination,” they said.
While I still believe it was unjust, I also see the gift.
The suspension gave me what the job never did: rest, rejuvenation, and reflection.
Teaching served its purpose.
I walked away with skills, strength, and self-awareness.
But I also walked away knowing what toxicity feels like—and what I will no longer tolerate.
I stayed in those roles out of necessity. Out of fear.
I let others’ beliefs about work and worth distort my vision.
I told myself my dreams were too big. That I was being unrealistic. That my desires were selfish. Even demonic.
And so, I stayed trapped.
I see now that I was living under a story that told me my desires were dangerous.
Like wanting more meant I was ungrateful.
Like dreaming big was some kind of betrayal.
I thought maybe something was wrong with me.
But now I realize—those thoughts, those beliefs, those systems—they were the vampires.
Not in the fangs-and-cloaks kind of way.
But in the slow, draining, soul-numbing kind of way.
Vampires, as an archetype, show up in a lot of stories—not just as monsters, but as symbols.
They represent what feeds on us while pretending to serve us.
Jobs that promise purpose but leave us empty.
Beliefs that say sacrifice is holy, even when it’s killing you.
The voice that whispers, “this is just the way it is.”
And what makes vampires so dangerous is that they don’t force—they seduce.
They make you doubt yourself.
Make you think you have to stay.
But healing doesn’t always mean slaying the vampire.
Sometimes it means recognizing it.
Calling it what it is.
And choosing not to let it feed on you anymore.
I think that’s what Sinners helped me see more clearly.
That sometimes, the system knocking at your door isn’t here to grow you—it’s here to consume you.
And the way out isn’t by fighting it on its terms, but by choosing yourself.
By reclaiming your energy. Your voice. Your truth.
I stayed in those spaces because I thought I had to.
Because I thought I was supposed to.
Because I confused suffering with service.
But I’m learning now that choosing my well-being isn’t selfish.
It’s vital.
I know that working at something I didn’t fully enjoy served its purpose—but the lesson was never to suffer endlessly.
The lesson was to see. To listen. To transform.
Maybe that’s what sacred alchemy looks like—
Letting the fire burn away what doesn’t serve, so what’s left is real.
Whole. Rooted.
No one should endure abuse in the name of security.
The next time evil comes knocking, I’ll know how to answer.
And this time, it won’t be from fear.
It will be from truth.
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