As the year ends, I find myself in a place I never imagined I’d be. This post isn’t about silver linings or finding joy in the storm. It’s a moment of raw honesty, a confessional because sometimes the weight of it all feels unbearable. And maybe, just maybe, sharing this might resonate with someone who feels equally lost.
My company, which I poured my heart and soul into, is failing. Sales for my books have not picked up like I dreamed of, and the reality of it stares at me every day like a persistent shadow. I’ve worked tirelessly, pouring every ounce of creativity, strategy, and hope into keeping it alive. Yet here I am, unable to pay my bills and wondering where I went wrong.
Parenting, which once brought me so much joy, now feels like a battlefield sometimes. My kids—my loves, my everything—send confusing messages, which makes it feel sometimes that feels like a slap. The warmth and connection we once shared sometimes feel strained, and I question whether I’m doing enough or too much.
Co-parenting has always been a dance of compromise, but a new relationship on the other side has thrown everything off balance. Despite my best efforts, I’ve become the scapegoat. The blame piles up, and I’m left holding a burden I never asked for.
Chronic pain has been a companion for most of my life, but this year, it’s been relentless. Insurance companies—those gatekeepers of relief—continue to deny me the treatments I desperately need. Each rejection feels like a cruel joke, leaving me trapped in a cycle of frustration and physical agony.
Some of my best friends have disappeared, leaving a gaping hole in my heart. Friendships I thought were unbreakable have faded into silence, and I’m left wondering if I’ve failed them or if life has pulled us apart. It’s a loneliness I didn’t expect, a betrayal I struggle to process.
Men. Oh, where do I even begin? My hope and heart feel battered by a series of disappointments. I’ve been ghosted more times than I can count, rejected in ways that sting long after the moment. I’ve opened myself up, only to be met with silence. It’s hard not to feel like I’m losing faith in the possibility of love.
On the professional front, I’ve applied for 140 jobs this year. One hundred and forty. The responses have been minimal, and there have been many rejections and deafening silence. I’m one of the hardest working people I know—or so I’ve been told—and yet, I face doors that refuse to open.
Drama seems to find me no matter what I do. I’ve tried to avoid it and rise above it, but it clings to me like a stubborn shadow. Then there’s menopause, a force of nature that has reshaped my body and mind in ways I never anticipated. Navigating a storm without a map is like navigating a storm without a map; the changes are relentless and unapologetic.
I’m not here to complain, though it might sound like I am. This is just the hard truth. The world is pressing down on me some days, making breathing hard. On other days, I manage to stand tall, even if it’s just for a moment. I’m human, flawed, and fragile, yet somehow still standing.
To anyone reading this who feels the weight of their struggles, know you’re not alone. Life can be brutally hard, but admitting it and laying it bare feels a little like freedom. I don’t have the answers. I’m still searching, hoping, and trying. But I know that sharing our stories, even the messy, painful ones, can remind us that we’re not as alone as we feel.
Here’s to surviving 2024, one breath at a time.
I share this to let our community know that life is a journey, not a destination; I will continue to move forward, wake up, and do my best. However, I hope there is some grace for being human these days.
Cheers to daily survivals,
Erin
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