You are not disposable. Neither am I.
Reflections and prompts to engage in the hard work of repair and accountability
What would it mean to believe, truly believe, that none of us are disposable?
It’s a question that resists easy answers, especially in a world that tells us we can eliminate conflict or harm by removing the source, by casting aside those who’ve hurt us, by severing ties with the messy parts of each other.
We often perpetuate and uphold disposability culture in our communities when we respond to harm and conflict with punishment and exclusion, reinforcing the idea that we can eliminate harm by discarding certain people rather than exploring the potential for transformation.
What if the things we seek to dispose of in others are actually reflections of what we fear or refuse to confront within ourselves?
Disposability is a story we tell ourselves to avoid the unsettling truth that being human is messy. We’ve learned to push away that which makes us uncomfortable. We protect ourselves from the discomfort that someone else’s actions or presence may provoke within us by creating distance. If they can hurt, then surely they are not like me. If they can break trust, then they must be beyond redemption.
To believe that we are not disposable means confronting the parts of ourselves that we’d rather turn away from. The parts of us that remind us that we can also hurt, disappoint, fall short and even cause harm to others.
To remember that we are not disposable means recognizing that we, too, are broken, messy and in need of repair.
It invites us to hold space for our own complexity, and to confront a deeper truth: we are all intertwined in our vulnerability.
Accountability, then, isn't about eliminating discomfort, but about being with it - it is the space we create between ourselves and others to hold the messiness, and to hold the possibility of repair without rushing to fix or avoid it. This doesn’t always mean remaining in relationship with those who harm us, but it does mean we do the work to acknowledge the complexities of harm, hold space for repair where possible and ask ourselves the hard questions:
Where did I learn to believe that some people - or parts of myself - are beyond repair or unworthy of belonging? What do I gain from holding onto this belief?
When I distance myself from someone, what is it really that I fear in them? Is it a reflection of something I have yet to accept in myself?
What does it take for me to believe that all of us - broken, messy, vulnerable - are worthy of repair, even when the world tells us we are not?