I sat in a meeting with my boss and a coworker, tears streaming down my face betraying the steely and level-headed image I’d always hoped to portray as a professional. I wasn’t sad. I was frustrated. I thought I spoke English reasonably well — though I’ll admit I have never been called the most gifted communicator, I still was not being heard. My mounting workload was becoming more than unbearable. I couldn’t see straight. Some mornings I sat at my desk, staring at unread emails paralyzed by a lack of direction. A growing list of work that I feared would…

Michelande Ridoré

Poet, Researcher, Patient Safety and Public Health Advocate www.michelande.com

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