Faith and vocation…

How do you build the life that you want that is going to be meaningful and satisfying?

I have had this blog post in draft since October 7. I have thoughts on faith and vocation, but I have been at a wall. I did a reflection on calling for class and received a 10/10. Do you feel like you have a calling? Are you living in your calling?

Currently, my favorite song is “Go Girl” by Summer Walker, Latto, and Doja Cat. I am inspired by this song. I spent my Saturday listening to “Go Girl” on repeat while bouncing off writing ideas to my girlfriend. I started my outline for my autoethnography of work and felt compelled to name the paper after the song because it just feels fitting. Everything about this current moment screams and feels like success for me. I internally tell myself, “go girl,” as I begin to deeply reflect on all my work positions from age 15 until now. Although I don’t feel that I am currently operating in my calling, I still feel called to something out here in the universe. Honest reflection helped me to see that work has not always been dreadful, and I did not always struggle to feel happiness in work. 

In small town Canton, MS, I began my first job as a cashier and waitress at McAlister’s Deli. I would go to work an hour to two hours earlier than my scheduled shift to bake cookies and prep for the day. Baking and packaging the cookies was a labor of love. I took pride in my work. I saw it as a service to my community to care for my customers. I remembered orders of our regulars and made their experience quicker.  Can you imagine the skills I exhibited as a 15-year-old just trying to make a few dollars? That is where it all began. At 15, I got my first job, my first work experience, and it has only been up since then. The next summer, I’d be interning for the City of Seattle’s Contracting and Purchasing Services in the Department of Finance and Administrative Services. Who would have known what work would become for me from there?

I am currently working for the City of Seattle as a Probation Counselor. In a way, I feel tethered to Seattle. Growing up and interning for the City left an incredible impression on me, and now I move through those same government spaces with a sense of devotion. There's a ritual to it all—the badge entry taps, the smell of early-morning coffee from the lobby, the lunch breaks in the Seattle Municipal Tower, and the way the security Marshalls greet me with a smile that grounds the day. These moments may seem small, but they represent continuity and belonging, echoing what Blustein (2006) calls “the psychological necessity of work” as a way to connect individuals to their community. This work doesn’t always feel like my final destination, but it does feel like a divine checkpoint. I still hear that internal whisper, “Go Girl,” affirming that I am where I need to be for now. As Volf (1991) writes, work is not merely labor but participation in God’s creative action. In this season of life, I see my role not just as a job, but as a place of purpose and service, a space where I show up as a whole person. My story as a Black woman in city government adds a deeper resonance. As Volf (1991) argues, work is participation in something sacred. That sacredness is not always loud. Sometimes, it looks like showing up on time, listening to people others have written off, and wishing the Marshalls a good day in return.

I bring my full self to my work experience. My gifts and talents have helped lead me to where I am today, and I have had a full work history thus far that reflects so. I am embodying the resilience, empathy, and leadership that I’ve cultivated over years of diverse work roles. From baking cookies at McAlister’s in Mississippi to navigating court systems as a Probation Counselor in Seattle, each chapter has called forward different parts of me. My Southern roots taught me service; my internship taught me systems; my current role teaches me strength. I’ve learned how to advocate, how to listen, and how to carry grace into spaces that often lack it. My work is not accidental — it is aligned with who I am becoming. And while I may not yet be in my ultimate calling, I move with intention, knowing that each role is shaping my purpose in ways I can feel, even if I can't always name them yet.

One of my core strengths is my ability to listen sincerely and without interruption. I create space for others to feel heard, and not just with words, but with presence. In work settings, especially within the justice system, this means allowing people to express their truth without judgment. I believe this affirms their dignity, which aligns with my Christian faith: to love my neighbor as myself. Listening becomes an act of love. It is through this posture of presence that my character strength of humility also shines. I do not need to be the loudest in the room; instead, I focus on uplifting those around me. Humility, to me, is not about shrinking, but it’s about centering others. In doing so, I feel I fulfill both a spiritual and professional calling: to serve, to witness, and to honor the voices often overlooked. I feel deeply that I serve best by witnessing others, and it is something that I am extremely grateful for. This is a trait I carry not only in my job as a probation counselor but in every space I occupy.

Psychologists Peterson and Seligman (2004) identify humility and listening as essential character strengths within the virtue category of humanity. These traits are linked to empathy, emotional regulation, and prosocial behavior — all of which I see reflected in my daily practice. When I make space for others to speak freely, I am not just being kind, yet I am engaging in what they call "other-oriented strength." This is also consistent with the servant leadership model, where humility is viewed as a leadership competency rather than a weakness (Greenleaf, 2002). My ability to center others isn’t accidental; it's both a faith-based practice and a professional skill honed through years of service and spiritual growth.

I can’t continue this reflection without naming something that has been tugging at my spirit: I feel played by grind culture. This societal norm — the belief that worth is earned through exhaustion and overwork — has shaped my work ethic, but also my restlessness. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on a phrase that’s been circulating online: “I don’t know a relaxed woman.” And it’s true. I know strong women, brilliant women, women full of faith and fire. Women who work two jobs, raise children, run nonprofits, and show up for others endlessly. I know women who carry entire communities on their backs. But relaxed? I don’t know many women who are simply allowed to be.

This realization has led me to question how work has shaped the Woman — particularly the Black woman — and what it has cost us to be seen as competent, professional, resilient. Grind culture has glorified burnout and masked it as ambition. As Duffy et al. (2015) remind us, true vocational flourishing is not about working harder, but about living authentically in alignment with one's values. And yet, we are rarely given the space to flourish. Instead, we’re applauded for surviving.

I’ve noticed in myself a guilt that arises when I rest, a fear of being seen as lazy or unproductive. This is not just personal — it’s cultural. Hooks (2000) wrote that "Black women have not historically had the privilege to define themselves outside of work," and I carry that legacy. I have inherited a work ethic from generations of women who had no choice but to hustle, grind, and endure. And while I am proud of that lineage, I also ache for rest. I ache to know what it would feel like to move through the world unrushed, unburdened, and unproven.

This is why I’m learning to resist grind culture not by rejecting work, but by reframing worth. My value is not solely in my productivity. It’s in my presence. My softness. My joy. And in the sacred act of letting myself rest without guilt.

My use of personal narrative and cultural memory is intentional. Autoethnography allows me to reflect not only on what I’ve done, but on who I’ve been in those workspaces. According to Ponterotto (2005), qualitative research — particularly within counseling psychology — invites the researcher to serve as the primary instrument of knowledge creation. This means my emotions, identities, and lived experiences are not “biases” to remove, but tools for truth-telling. My work story, from Mississippi to Seattle, is more than linear progression; it’s layered with spiritual calling, racialized experience, and emotional growth — all of which are valid forms of inquiry within a constructivist paradigm. 

Reflecting through the autoethnographic lens has made me realize that my relationship to work is not just professional — it’s personal, political, and spiritual. I’ve been shaped by systems and places, but I’ve also resisted, healed, and transformed within them. From baking cookies in Canton to counseling justice-involved individuals in Seattle, I’ve witnessed the sacredness of service in both small gestures and systemic roles. My character strengths — like listening and humility — are not merely personal values, but tools of justice and connection in the world of work.

Scholars like Thompson and Bunderson (2019) challenge us to understand calling not as a destination, but as a lived, dynamic practice. For me, that means embracing where I am, even when it doesn’t feel final. Dawson (2005) reminds us that vocation is not always loud or glamorous — it’s often rooted in moral purpose and community care. These frameworks help me honor the present, even as I envision future possibilities.

This journey has taught me that work can be a space for self-inquiry, spiritual discipline, and radical hope. I may not yet be fully in my calling, but I am walking toward it — with intention, with faith, and with a whisper of affirmation in every badge scan and morning coffee: Go Girl.

And just like that, you have read some of my 12-page autoethnography for class. What are your thoughts? How is work for you?