I woke up again with that familiar knot in my stomach.
The morning routine before completing the 8:10 a.m. school run and then I feel it:
I do not want to do this day.
I’m not lazy.
I’m not entitled.
I’m just… done.
There’s no spark left. The work feels pointless, the people drain me, and every morning I bargain with myself for five more minutes in bed like one of the kids begging for one more hour of their favorite activities.
But I can’t quit.
Because mortgage.
Because three kids who need to eat and have shoes that fit.
Because of the two vehicle payments, utilities, and insurance that costs more than my first car.
So I put on the same weekly clothes, drink a cup of coffee, and drive to the same cubicle that’s been slowly killing the parts of me that used to feel alive.
And the worst part? I make just enough to survive, but not enough to build the cushion I’d need to escape. Every dollar is already spoken for before it hits the account.
I’m not writing this for pity.
I’m writing it because I know some of you are reading this on your phone in the work bathroom right now, heart racing, thinking, “Holy shit, that’s me.”
You’re not broken for feeling this way.
You’re not weak.
You’re just in the long, gray season of life that doesn’t let you breathe yet.
I don’t have the fairy-tale answer tonight.
I’m still in it.
But I’m starting to slowly fight back in the margins—a few hours a week after the kids are down—turning the one skill they pay me for into something I can eventually sell on my own terms.
It’s slow. It’s exhausting. Some nights I fall asleep at the keyboard. Other nights I am too burnt out to bother.
But it’s the only light I’ve got right now.
If you’re in this with me, leave a comment and just say “same.”
We don’t have to fix it tonight.
We just have to stop pretending we’re okay when we’re not.