By skyforbes 
So here I am again, in my mobile therapist’s office (a.k.a. my car), on the way to class, pretending I’ve got a few brain cells left after the mental gymnastics of the day. And as usual, I’m deep in thought — because apparently, trauma, ethics, and the unholy trinity of broken systems make great drive-time companions.
Today started with supervision — which, miracle of miracles, we did early. So instead of squeezing it in between existential dread and case notes, I had time to think. Dangerous, I know.
My field supervisor says, in his well-meaning social work voice, that maybe he got me thinking about ethics in a certain way. Buddy, I’ve been thinking. What you did was give me evidence that the system’s as janky as I suspected. So congrats — I now have receipts for what I already knew: Medicaid is being treated like an all-you-can-bill buffet, and half the services are performed with the enthusiasm of a DMV clerk on Ambien.
It’s wild, really. We start these programs hoping to learn and grow — and then boom, we’re handed a crash course in “How to Spot a Systemic Money Grab 101.” And if that makes people uncomfortable, good. Maybe it’s time for discomfort to sit in the front row for once.
Honestly, when I started this program, it was rough. I hadn’t been in school in 20 years. I was basically a caveman with a laptop, trying to understand how to upload assignments and survive Canvas without rage-quitting. And while everyone else walked in like they were prepping for their TED Talk, I got hit with the digital culture shock and a tsunami of egos. Nothing quite like watching people flex their knowledge like it’s CrossFit for the soul.
And here I thought knowing a former professor might make things easier, it didn’t. But she was great, and people still miss her — which only reminded me how mediocre the current vibe is. Sorry, not sorry.
Still, I came here to learn. To grow. To actually understand myself better so I can do this work with integrity. Isn’t that the point of all this? But somewhere between group projects and trauma vignettes, it became clear: passion isn’t always welcome. Especially when it doesn’t come wrapped in soft tones and polite smiles.
If I was quieter, more compliant, maybe I’d get that coveted seat at the table. But my truth? It comes loud, messy, and usually with side-eye. And I’m okay with that. Because silence is what keeps the dysfunction running smoothly. And I’m not here to be part of a machine that grinds people up and calls it service delivery.
Now I’m off to class to talk about helping a 27-year-old missing person who — plot twist — isn’t actually missing. She just doesn’t want to go home. And I believe her. Because when you mention a stepfather and someone immediately wants to flee the island? That’s not a mystery. That’s a red flag wearing a neon sign.
I told the daughter I’d keep her plan private. And I meant it. But I also know the mom’s probably going to lose it when she finds out. Oh well. Autonomy isn’t a suggestion — it’s ethics. And if my classmate decides to play messenger pigeon, so be it. That’s the job. You learn fast in social services that people rarely present the truth — you have to dig through the performance to find it.
Sometimes the truth is just a jagged little pill covered in glitter and tears. But if we’re not willing to swallow it, we’re just playing dress-up with people’s lives.