"I got a $10,000 loan for my massage certification," said 26-year-old Jasper Stone. "But as a chronically ill person, I couldn't risk getting sick."
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This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jasper Stone, a 26-year-old massage therapist in Kansas. It has been edited for length and clarity.
When I started school for my massage-therapy certification, I was so happy. After dropping out of college because of the difficulties of balancing school, work, and the demands of chronic illness, I felt like I had finally found an educational path to a career that was going to work for me.
Three weeks before I graduated, COVID-19 spread through the United States, and a terrifying thought hit me: Was I even going to be able to be a massage therapist at all?
For me, it seemed like the "traditional" route to a job — a four-year college education — wasn't right. But massage therapy school felt like I'd finally found what I was looking for, so I took out a $10,000 loan for the cost of the certification. I spent six months going to school full-time before the pandemic broke out.
I knew I couldn't risk getting sick, but in my home state of Kansas, people and businesses weren't great at complying with Center for Disease Control and Prevention guidelines on social distancing and masking.
Plus, massage therapy is obviously a really up close and personal job. You can't really keep your distance when you're massaging someone, which would have been OK if I could trust the spas and doctor's offices in the area to make sure that clients are wearing masks and taking appropriate precautions.
But that just wasn't the case at all. As I came to the end of my education and received my massage-therapy certification, it became clear to me that I couldn't safely practice massage therapy in the state of Kansas during a pandemic.
My inability to safely practice massage therapy was a devastating realization. If you're taking a risk in the US, it better work out — especially if you're already poor.
I'd already taken one chance on college, and it hadn't worked out. Then, I gave myself a second chance on massage therapy. Because of the pandemic, that didn't work either.
It's really sad, because if the pandemic hadn't happened, I think I'd be happily working as a massage therapist. But as someone at higher risk for a more severe case of COVID-19, I just can't put my own health at risk for a job — and in my state, I don't trust that clients would keep me safe by masking, especially with many mask mandates lifting.
I've thought about going into business for myself, because then I'd be able to control mask guidelines and which clients I take. But I just don't have the money right now to start my own business.
That's why many massage therapists start out working for a spa or medical office before going into business on their own. It's just not feasible for me right now, and I'm not sure if it ever will be, which is really sad. I truly thought massage therapy would be the career for me.
As a chronically ill person, I joke with my friends that I'm un-hirable. If I don't disclose my disabilities and requirements for accommodations before I get hired, and then I later ask for accommodations, I'll be asked why I wasn't more forthright in the interview process. (I can't help but think that the quiet thing they're not saying is: We wouldn't have hired you if we knew.)
It's exhausting to have to think about this, but it's the reality of being chronically ill and trying to earn a living in America. I require accommodations, and a nondisabled worker may not.
A big loan and six months of school later, I still don't have a career. The upside is that studying massage therapy has been wonderful for my personal physical-healing journey.
I know my muscles, bones, and attachments, and I know how to ease my own chronic pain. But I do regret that I had to spend $10,000 to learn how to ease my own pain, not to secure a career for myself like I thought I was doing.
