Aida Rodriguez: How Losing My Voice Helped Me Find It ...Middle East

From an early age, I learned to show up to work no matter what - sick or not. Our elders instilled this in us: there were no excuses, short of being on your deathbed, for missing a day. My uncle took pride in recalling the day he worked with the flu, battling a fever. When I asked why he didn't just take the day off, he reminded me that this was a luxury that wasn't available to us. As children of immigrants, people of color, our worth was tied to our labor.

A few weeks ago, I fell ill after traveling back home to Los Angeles from a show on the East Coast. Exhausted and feeling flu-like symptoms, I took a couple of days off to "recover." By the third day, I convinced myself I was fine, ignoring my body's signals. I pushed myself back to work because I was anxious about the missed days and what others might say. The shame I'd seen in my elders now resided in me.

I headed to Northern California for another weekend of shows, not fully recovered but driven by duty. My work means the world to me; I respect the businesses that hire me and the people who spend their money to see me. I don't take any of that for granted. After landing in San Jose, I picked up a rental car and headed straight to my hotel. The moment I entered my room, I felt the familiar symptoms return with a vengeance. Despite this, I drank some hot tea, took a quick nap, and nursed myself to a state where I believed I could perform at the comedy club. When I arrived at the club, I felt terrible - my body was weak and my throat was sore. I saved what little voice I had left for the stage. The two comedians who opened for me were bursting with energy, enjoying every minute, and I envied them for it. All I wanted was to sleep.

When it was my time to perform, I stepped onto the stage, feeling uneasy, dizzy with blurred vision. The stage, usually my second home, felt foreign. Something once effortless now felt impossible. In my 17 years of comedy, I never passed up a weekend of stand-up. I'd perform with endless colds, debilitating migraines, and intense menstrual cramps. I even performed with a freshly broken wrist; I delivered my hour of comedy in agonizing pain, hitting the stage before the emergency room.

But this time in Sunnyvale, it felt different. Alongside the physical illness, my spirit was broken; I finally hit my max. I couldn't believe what I was willing to put my body through to avoid disappointing my agent, manager, the club owner, and the audience.

I stood on that stage, fighting nausea, wanting to throw up, and still reaching for the next punch line. Somehow, I delivered. My voice was gone by the end; I left the last drop of it on that stage with my closing bit. As I powered through taking photos with fans, a woman hugged me, urging me to rest, and it finally hit me that I couldn't perform even if I wanted to. I had no voice! "You need to go home, you did enough by showing up tonight," she said. The realization that I would have pushed through regardless saddened me. When I got back to my hotel room, I cried. I needed to lose my voice and become completely depleted to just wrestle with the thought that maybe I was worthy of rest. I was still uneasy about it.

As a celebrated comedian reducing myself to three days of jokes, my body, my health, and my mental wellness mattered more than clocking in. It wasn't okay, and I knew it. The next morning, I called my reps and told them I wouldn't be completing the weekend. I was going home. It felt unfamiliar to advocate for myself in this way. I realized I could care for myself in ways my ancestors couldn't. This was a privilege I couldn't take lightly and was worth honoring. As I headed to the airport, an uneasy feeling lingered. I had to remind myself that this was the right thing to do. For so long, I accepted as a belief what I learned from my loved ones because I never understood that they didn't have the same choices. Thanks to them - I do. I flew home and went straight to bed. It took a month for me to recover from the flu, but I have no regrets for taking the time off.

I was programmed to go nonstop, not complain, to keep my head down and do the work. Culturally, we celebrate each other for showing up under the most difficult circumstances: illness, tragedies, and even loss. It is something that we expect of ourselves and indirectly enables the outside world to expect of us, too. I can't even begin to imagine the amount of suffering and sacrifice that has gone into the labor that grants me the privilege of being able to take a month off. I had to check in and acknowledge that I could. It's almost as if I had to ask for permission. After the sadness, the anger came - I got pissed off. If ever there was a generational curse, I am determined to break this one. I hope that every single woman, person of color, Black person who has ever felt that they had to surrender their body and wellness for the gain of others stops and remembers what was paid. I took the time off because I didn't feel well and couldn't perform to the best of my ability, but most of all because I am worth it.

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