“Your wheels are spinning in place.” This is what a friend and colleague said to me as we chatted in his office in-between classes this past Spring semester. Three years had passed since I graduated college in May 2020, at the heights of the COVID pandemic, and I had only a negligible cluster of professional experiences to show for the time spent. Attempts at carving out some sort of career path within this time—as education goes virtual, rent soars, with layoffs and budget cuts abound—did not provide me a kindness.

A disproportionate amount of that time was spent saddled with regret. The voice of my mother in the background of my mind throws out suggestions of taking a job at a bank like her father; another voice tells me to re-enlist in the military.

It wasn’t too long after the semester ended that I decided to apply for the AmeriCorps position in Kalispell, Montana. 2,500 miles from my home in Conway, South Carolina. I needed something else.

Without a doubt the most visceral part of doing something radically different than what you have ever done before is that you are forced to concede a part of you that is familiar. (The jury is still out if that concession is the endpoint to immense, hegemonic pressure nudging you toward compliance.)

What really happens to people of limited means is that those major changes and shifts that uproot livelihoods is never just an active choice. For the poor and working class, large parts of your life, your legs, your wheels are, in fact, completely stuck in place. Social and economic mobility affects the way we behave today and what we deem achievable in our futures.

When I speak to students on campus about what they need it inevitably boils down to a lack of resources.

“I don’t have my own means of transportation,” or “I don’t have access to affordable childcare.”

However, there are brighter moments when we interact with each other under conditions that could have only been possible with the right amount of interest. Like the days when I talk and laugh with students while we’re making bracelets and icing sugar cookies. Or when I bring students to local food drives to help community members and their families celebrate the holidays.

It’s difficult for me to enjoy simple moments. What’s the point of any of this if people experience untold suffering? What I’ve been reminded by students at my service site is that community is vital to your sense of self because you are reminded that you are not alone in pain, hurt, and angst. That kind of emotional resource is crucial for those like me who also come from limited means. I recognize this within the deep pools of their eyes and hear it in the hopeful stream of their voice. These are moments that bring me closer to the truth. These are memories that I’m grateful to be stuck with.