Bandaids & Budget Lines

They hired my love and ignored my vision.

Dangled a title with no spine, no scaffolding.

Told me to lead,

then punished me when I did.

God forbid a woman put a period at the end of her sentence.

I saw the bandaids.

The cracked tile smiles.

The meeting room silences.

The “we’re a family” gaslight

burning like fluorescent bulbs overhead.

I wasn’t confused.

I was ahead.

I wasn’t too much.

I was what they pretended they wanted.

I showed up with a full map.

They handed me a flashlight

and said “stay in the hallway.”

I told them the roof was leaking.

They offered me a bucket.

I told them the foundation was crumbling.

They handed me paint.

I told them I could fix it.

They locked the shed.

Blamed me for the storm.

And now they tell me

there’s no money left for a job

I built with my own hands?

No.

This isn’t about budget.

It’s about cowardice.

About a woman in finance

who took my discernment personally.

About a man in middle-management

who mistook silence for safety.

About a Head of School

who couldn’t say the truth out loud.

About a place that calls itself sacred

but flinched

when I tried to make it whole.

I held their chaos.

I held their kids.

I held my dignity while they chipped away my hours

and called it strategy.

I was rare.

I am rare.

And they will feel my absence

in every space I once kept whole.

I am not small.

I am not vague.

I am not leaving quietly.

You don’t get to fire the architect

and keep the blueprints.