The Greatest Rejection I Ever Received

Out the door on my first international deployment to southeastern Africa

“Are you deploying to ____?” Some form of this question will pop up in conversation when a massive, heartbreaking crisis hits the airwaves. If you’re like my parents, maybe you settle down after a long day and tune in to Lester Holt promptly at 5:30 to see what you've missed. Or if you’ve nixed cable like me, you scroll, click and view a barrage of images and headlines leading to a universal urge to just… do something, anything to help.

It’s a very human desire to want to alleviate suffering, to be able to say “I contributed. I helped,” for the sake of soothing some of that inner guilt alongside genuine empathy. Also, it's just plain uncomfortable to feel helpless. I feel fortunate to have a tangible way of being able to contribute in my line of work, whether boots on the ground in a crisis zone or working an emergency behind the scenes from afar.

BUT. There’s another side. (Well, many other sides – no one wants to hear about when everything is just going swimmingly.)

Raising your hand to willingly accept an international relief assignment is also laden with tradeoffs, consequences and irreversible choices.

And for me, the last several years felt like playing roulette with time. For every airplane ticket I booked since Ferg turned, oh, I don’t know, 12, I’d give us both a pep talk. An agreement. Listen buddy, Mom has to go away for a while. No leaving this earth without me, deal? But then I’d do what I did every time, and board that flight still gripping for control.

So I’ll let you in on what most people didn’t see this time last year. I, too, was suctioned to the news of escalating conflict in Ukraine filling my screen. I broke my usual rule of not watching extensive breaking news coverage for more than a few minutes, a terrible strategy to sooth my nerves (and I knew it) alongside a boisterous excuse of “effectively doing my job.” Three days of Anderson Cooper soundtracks later, I felt consumed, near ready to jump out of my skin. I wanted to raise my hand to plant my own boots on the ground. This process of layered, dizzying emotion at the onset of a disaster is one I have to come to know very well. It starts as a slow simmer… mayyyybe I could handle this one. Then louder, until a full on wave of intensity ripples through my body saying we gotta find a way to make it work. AGAINST ALL ODDS. Glances at the calendar, quick math, and a crammed brain accompany. It’s the onset of the adrenaline phase. The race against time phase. The “we need to know your availability in the next few hours” phase. It’s the no time to overthink, trust all of your gut and jump in holding your breath phase. Which, to the outside, must look kind of sexy and exciting.

But at the start of this particular crisis, instead of trusting my gut, I gave into all-consuming external noise telling me what to prioritize. Which is anything but what I consider admirable. Because towering all around me were half-packed cardboard boxes filled with fifteen years worth of my Chicago life. The moving truck would arrive in three weeks, as would the end of a historic, formulating chapter of young adult life. Ferg, in his wisest soul, knew change was coming, too.

I put my head down, made some phone calls, and applied with a scrawny window of availability - not at all what I knew the operation would need. It was a self-serving act that made me feel (sort of) better in the moment, while the thoughts of what those tradeoffs may be quickly thunked deeper in my belly – rocks sinking in mud.

Here I was, thinking it was 90 percent up to me, forgetting the Universe was behind the curtain calling the shots. I pushed away the inherent exhaustion I already felt in my bones imagining life on the ground as a responder, the pressure piling high.

Not long after, a message arrived to my inbox. They’d chosen someone else. With longer availability.

Full on rejection: Always a pleasant feeling, isn’t it?

I went through the motions just like any other human - self pity, annoyance, anger, sadness, disappointment. Drove myself to believe it was personal, something wrong with me and not just my availability. Picked up the phone and sought comfort and escape from my complicated insides.

In my ear, a seasoned humanitarian friend painted a sharp truth:

You get a two second pity party to feel how you wanna feel. But then remember: Do you really think the people needing help care if it’s you or someone else giving them aid? Painfully, and entirely, on point. But there’s another nugget that has stayed with me, wiggling its way as relief into my life beyond that hectic month. One that shortly emerged on the phone with my coach and confidante, Rebecca. Katie, if you were meant to be over there right now, you’d be over there. The world would have lined you up for it. You would have gotten sign after sign if that was the place for you. And you just… haven’t gotten that.

Simply put, that rejection was redirection. And it was the greatest rejection I can ever remember getting. I just didn’t know it at the time.

For had I deployed right then, I would have missed the last month of Ferguson’s life. There was (and always is) infinitely more happening than what we can see in front of our noses. On the outside, Old Man Ferg was just still hoppin’ slowly along. I couldn’t see the brain scans that would reveal the unthinkable just a few weeks later. But the world knew. She knew so well she had to pull out all the stops causing the breaks to screech in order for me to not board that plane and break the original contract bound so tightly to our hearts. These past few weeks, I've watched with the world as tragedy unfolds in Turkiye and Syria, among countless other crises simultaneously rippling across our planet. I, too, (still) feel the tugs of wanting to help. And every day, I’m a little more at peace with all that can look like without compromising what my gut has to say when she speaks.

I glance at the upcoming trip in my calendar planned months ago to visit my sister – lucky to hug her if only once or twice a year. I support a dear friend and colleague in her first deployment overseas, feeling immense pride and faith in her being there to represent our team. And I keep filling myself up so I can have more to give, too.

Over the course of thirteen years packing bags and dropping everything to run toward emergencies, it’s gotten easier to drop down and listen more carefully for clues about where I need to be – knowing none of it is truly up to us, anyway.

How Ferg and I spent that week instead of deploying: smooshed between good friends soaking up the last of Chicago

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