Finding My Capacity:

Beyond the Frantic

There is a specific kind of frantic that lives in the body—a feeling I know all too well. It's the pang of seeing a need, feeling a deep, cellular urge to help, and offering yourself up before you've even checked in. It’s the subsequent guilt when you realize you can't follow through, when the dates align to create a perfect storm that fucks things up.

For so long, I beat myself up for this. I forced myself to show up inauthentically, contorting my energy and time to meet invisible standards. I see now that I was living inside the pillars of white supremacy culture: the urgency, the saviorism, the fear of being seen as not "serious" or not "helpful" enough. This wasn't just a habit; it was a mindset embedded in my very cells.

Photo by hello aesthe: https://www.pexels.com/photo/ripped-page-of-a-book-7766097/

I realize now I’ve been constantly searching for a new set of rules. Guidelines to tell me I’m doing it right. This is why I hesitated to engage with EAGER for so long—an organization dedicated to deconstructing what it means for European Americans to be in community. And the irony is not lost on me: I was a founding member. I was there when Vix put the call out. Yet, I was still waiting for their rulebook. The very thing I needed to be freed from was the container I kept seeking, even as I helped build the frame. The rules were what held me, contained me, and yes, stopped me from truly engaging.

When will I see that communicating what's happening—like the real, tangible limits of my capacity with a TBI—is not going to be punished? When will I see my true capacity without judgment, and shed that white saviorism that wires this frantic energy into my bones?

The painful, liberating truth I'm facing is this: there is no rulebook. There is no singular "Person" who has the answers.

Who is the person?

There isn't.

It's you.

And you.

And you.

And you.

We are the people. We are in the messy, unscripted work of figuring it out together.

This realization has been a painful journey of letting go—not just of tasks, but of an identity. Letting go of things I genuinely enjoyed and admitting to myself, boldly and honestly, that I have a limited capacity. My TBI isn't an excuse; it's a fact of my embodiment that grounds my understanding of capacity in non-negotiable reality. I am learning to trust that there are other people doing the work, and that my role can shift. I can be part of the support network. I can hold space. I can contribute within the bounds of my real, physical capacity, not the imagined, infinite one I thought I was supposed to have.

And now, I know a new kind of peace: the knowledge that if what I’ve committed to must suddenly be dropped because my capacity shrinks, I will not be held to unrealistic rules. The people in my life now, the community I've chosen, accepts my dynamic capacity. They understand that showing up authentically sometimes means stepping back.

This shift has brought a profound change. I am more consistent now—as much as someone with a TBI can be—with my energy and participation. I am not exhausting myself trying to be in seven different organizations at once. I'm not saying we shouldn't be eager, but that we all have a responsibility to figure out our capacity, our roles, our skills, and our resources with radical honesty.

Because if we're not careful, ableism will creep in. It is, after all, a tentacle of the same white supremacy culture that taught me my worth was in my endless productivity and my obedience to the rules. My new practice is to pause and ask: Is this where my energy belongs? Is this a cyclical drain, or can I put it on the back burner because it no longer feeds me or the community in a sustainable way?

My new commitment is to be able to say, "Yup, I can take that on," or "No, that is not where I belong. My capacity is reached."

I step in it. I fuck things up. I drop the ball. And it has all been teaching me that this space is like nothing I've been in before.

A work without a rulebook, built by us all.

@jospeace03