The Living Breath of Justice

https://youtu.be/nWF8VKaLDcU

I have been in office situations were I was underestimated, overlooked, then silenced and eventually overburdened and run off. Too often, what passes for "opportunity" is exploitation. It is not even cleverly disguised but instead it is transparently delivered under the guise of  tradition: unpaid internships that demand everything, from those who are already sacrificing, to be present in that space.

The conversation around student labor must stretch beyond the narrow frame of internship reform. It is tethered to larger fractures in our educational system: a system increasingly run for profit, not for learning. As we witness universities bow to political pressure, compromise academic freedom, and prioritize bureaucracy over integrity, we must recognize the stakes. When our institutions surrender, democracy itself is endangered. Justice, equity, and advocacy are not luxuries to be tacked onto a mission statement; they are the vital organs of a healthy society. Social workers are needed more now than ever—not fewer, not quieter, but bolder, and truer to the ethical roots we are sworn to uphold.

Yet within the very field that preaches self-care and resilience, a cruel paradox thrives. Newer social workers, especially those who are neurodiverse, queer, or otherwise divergent from the imagined norm, are expected to labor harder, longer, and with greater emotional sacrifice, all while pretending that their needs are negotiable. As someone who lived nearly half a century without a cognitive diagnosis, I have seen this hypocrisy firsthand: the industry that lauds self-preservation turns swiftly punitive the moment one protests inequity or the impossibility of the demands placed upon them. Those who dare to name the imbalance—to say, "this is not feasible"—are met not with solidarity, but with professional isolation, derision, and dismissal.

We are not merely students. We are the future architects of change—therapists, policymakers, researchers, and organizers—who will one day rewrite the laws and standards that failed so many before us. To demand our labor for free, while exposing us to vicarious trauma, inaccessible supervision, and unjust systems, is not a rite of passage. It is a violation of the very ethics the field claims to champion.

Social work is not volunteerism. It is professional, evidence-informed, regulated, soul-bearing labor. And labor—no matter how noble its aim—demands just compensation. Labor without compensation is not altruism; it is a modern form of indentured servitude. Slavery. If we are truly a field committed to equity, we must confront the uncomfortable truth that unpaid internships disproportionately exclude students of color, low-income learners, parents, neurodivergent individuals, and those with lived experience—the very people whose wisdom, resilience, and insight make this profession richer, more vital, and more necessary.

That life experience was ever considered a liability in social work is a failure of both imagination and ethics. In my own internship, I have fought an uphill battle to be seen for the value I carry, standing in my fifties with a lifetime of applicable experience. Though we claim to honor the weight of lived experience, the reality is that we often punish those whose advocacy is forged in real-world fires. The skills I have spent a lifetime honing—skills of discernment, boundaries, and unwavering ethical clarity—are met not with recognition, but with skepticism, even surprise, when I refuse to abandon them. It is long past time that we live the values we so often profess.

This is the second time in my life I have found myself standing at the threshold of a profession poised on the edge of deep change. In my earlier career—the one for which I first pursued my undergraduate degree—there was an idealized, almost mythic belief that entering the field was an act of pure public service, driven solely by care and duty. While those motivations were true, there was another, quieter calling that many of us carried: the recognition, even then, of the system’s deep fractures. We did not simply want to serve; we wanted to heal the very structures that were failing the people we served. Yet, as I discovered, these systems are designed to keep those who answer such callings silent, demoralized, and above all, too burdened to fight.

Now, as I step into social work, I find myself facing the same paradox, though I see it more clearly. I did not enter this field intending to become a voice for systemic change, but the reality of the work—and the urgency of the times—has made it unavoidable. This time, however, I am not naïve. I know that to survive here, I must not only serve, but also resist. I am trying, even now, to learn how to wield my social justice voice with skill, not just passion. I do not yet know if I will succeed. But I know that I must try.

This is not merely a matter of policy. It is a matter of survival. If we are to safeguard the heart of social work—and by extension, the heart of our communities—we must stand together. We must refuse to accept burnout as the cost of doing good. We must refuse to accept that the voices of those who know injustice firsthand be the first voices silenced.

And we must remember: the call to justice is not just an echo of tradition. It is the living breath of every soul who dares to believe that love, equity, and advocacy are not privileges for the few, but birthrights for all.

I have always been too much for polite rooms: too loud, too sensitive, too honest, too willing to name what others would prefer remain hidden. I have always seen too much, and I have never been able to stay silent when the truth demanded to be spoken. I have made people uncomfortable simply by refusing to pretend otherwise. And I am not afraid of that discomfort.

The question is not whether I will stand unafraid. The question is whether you will stand unafraid with me.