1. You are loved. You were hired for your value to the field before you took the job. You played a vital role in getting money into the hands of artists and organizations. Those awful emails that you received don’t reflect you. Not at all. Full stop.

2. You did everything right—and nothing wrong. Having lived through working at the agency during the early 1990s, I know that, to abide by the unjust policies that were handed down, you have experienced a form of hell that most in our field, from the outside, do not understand. You worked long hours to complete tasks that none of your grantees had a clue about. Some in our field don’t understand the difference between the current administration’s orders and the agency’s own self-imposed decisions, naively directing their criticism toward the agency and its staff. I know you did the best that you could, under the circumstances. In fact, I was watching from out here, and I know that you did an incredible job at handling all the communication and unknowns, including all the things that you could and could not say.

3. Please remember one of your biggest gifts: each other. Stay connected. About a month after my RIF, I had a little dinner for those who were laid off. Seeing each other felt euphoric. For the next year, a small group of us had a monthly pot-luck lunch, which was a lifeline. We commiserated and laughed and swapped job postings. When we found we were applying for the same jobs, we swapped notes about who got an interview and even who was still in the running. Even though we were wincing at the time, it helped us not feel alone.

4. Please remember another gift: your connections to the field. Lean on them. The people you funded and emailed, and saw at conferences, are still out there. You’ll quickly know your real colleagues from those who were “friends” because you were a funder. The former will return your emails and proactively check in on you. Some of them are probably thinking of you right now. Those people are still in my life; I’ve never forgotten who was kind to me back at the time I left the NEA.

5. Transitions take time. And they can hurt. You will not find all the answers immediately. Some of you will find a place relatively soon. Others will seek new career directions. Some will stay around DC and others will move. There’s a great book called Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes. I read it several times. See in particular the section about the Neutral Zone, which describes the emotional time and space when you don’t know where you’re headed yet. After I put in the effort, the field found a place for me. I’ve been consulting for 29 years and still love it.

6. Feel all the feelings. And take care of yourself. You may feel pissed, or hopeless, or liberated, or motivated, or discouraged –all within the same day, or even hour! All are understandable. Back then, when reading my resume, at the top of the page I felt great about myself, but by the bottom of the page I was questioning myself and my skills and whether anyone would hire me. Life might just be a rollercoaster for a while. That said, protect your overall health as much as you can. Eat well and rest. Leave your home every day—if even to walk around the block, pet your neighbor’s dog, go to the gym, or get coffee and say hi to the barista—because human contact reminds us of the world that’s out there, ready to embrace us. Find some joy or humor every day. One of my favorites: comedian and (IMO) performance artist Josh Johnson, who tells it like it is, but with love.

7. Don’t lose faith in yourself, in the arts field, and in your community—whatever that means. Please, please don’t let anyone else tell you what or who you are or are not. If you need any help with this one, email me directly. Do not let the people who sent the nasty emails have any more control over you. I strongly believe there are enough opportunities to go around. Some of these opportunities will take longer to surface than others, and they may not look like what you think they will—in fact, they may be better than what you are imagining right now.

8. Learn and try some new things. I did a lot of retraining, workshops, and joined some professional groups. They all provided concrete evidence that there’s a whole world out there, including some segments that are ready to help and embrace you. For me, the National Women’s Business Center offered free seminars once a month, led by women consultants, which were crucial in my building the knowledge and confidence to go independent. I got a certificate in fundraising, audited classes at my alma mater, and attended networking sessions.

9. Strongly consider volunteering. I know, you worked long and hard to get good at your job. And you need money. But volunteering—for a neighborhood group, a political cause, or an arts organization—can do wonders for your mental health and sense of belonging. It gets you out of your head and home. During my first year, I volunteered for a DC arts organization and every time I went into their office, I felt like I was back in the world I longed to be in—because I was. Eventually they became one of my first clients.

10. Above all, please remember that you are still you. Regardless of what happens I and others will see you for who you are and have always been. The administration cannot take away artists’ voices, nor your relationships with the artists you serve, nor your skills, nor the myriad connections that our field has built over the past few decades. I pray and hope that this crisis will, in some way, bring our field together.

In that spirit, if there is anything I can do, or you want to talk (in confidence) please let me know. If you want to have that dinner mentioned above, I’ll host it for you.

In Solidarity and Support,
Suzanne