A friend asked me the other day why I like being a social worker and, in typical Renee fashion, I have been mulling over my response for a week now. My initial reply, taken a little aback, was that I like people. After those three words, my answer became awkwardly scripted. Perhaps it’s all the job interviews. I felt like I was giving an answer to my mother, fitting my passions into her expectations. I began to define what I do by success. True, I don’t think there is any field that yields such practical and life changing results as social work. Medicine, sure, they save lives, I guess. But I have created families. I have ended domestic violence. Of course that’s bullshit. But playing any small part in these outcomes fills me with pride. I like people. I remember everyone I have worked with (in my young and very short career). But to justify myself, I talk about what I have done for people. Even though I was talking to my friend, who was putting none of this on me, I was addressing my parents and my culture. I would rather be true to my passions than justify them.
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