It’s the day after Christmas. I’m drowning my sorrows in a bar.

There’s people everywhere. Colorful lights. I can feel the warmth of the patio heaters kissing my back. A sensation of a warmth I haven’t known in a long time.

So many voices, yet I can’t hear anything. They’re just vibrations projecting from every corner, bouncing off me and disappearing into the abyss.

I sit here and wonder what brings everyone tonight. I feel I’m among my people. Probably those who feel unloved. Unwelcome. A place to run to when they don’t feel chosen.

I asked for a Michelob. To my surprise, they didn’t have it. Quite strange for a queer bar, where I’m sure plenty of other lesbians frequent. The Yuengling Flight—it’s not comparable, even though I don’t even like beer in the first place. The only reason I ordered something light is because I don’t want to drink myself into oblivion.

It’s so fucking strange, being in my 30s. Remembering how my younger self thought she was bisexual. That she wanted to be a mom. That she [dreadfully] almost married a man.

So strange, the waters I’ve waded through to realize that’s never what I wanted, truly.

Still, I didn’t imagine sitting at a red high-top table the day after Christmas. Alone.

I’ve always felt alone. Even in rooms full of people. Just like how I feel in this bar right now.

Most of the time I find myself trying to suffocate myself in my feelings. Like a plastic bag over my head as I scream. Purposeful. Torturing myself for torture’s sake. I don’t want to run from them. Somehow, I know if I try to do that, they’ll catch me. Tackle me, give me a concussion. I don’t want to give them that type power.

If I’m the one to suffocate myself, at least I have control.

But tonight is different. The control I typically have, I’ve lost. I’ve entered the stadium without a helmet, just waiting to be taken to the ground.

Give me amnesia so that tomorrow when I wake, I won’t remember half this.

Too bad this garbage will await me in the morning.

I’m exhausted.
From everything that followed.
The entanglement. The damage.

I wasn’t prepared for this.
The blunt-force trauma I didn’t know I’d sustain.
The neurological injury.

I’m grieving so many things.
Abandonment. The loss of safety.

Not just safety in others, or in the belief that love can be enough,
but safety in my own body.

I shouldn’t have to do all of this.

Nothing feels stable anymore.
Not my sense of reality.
Not my capacity to heal.
Not the future.

Old wounds aren’t old anymore.
They’re ripped wide open.
They’re gaping. Bleeding.
In need of sutures.

But I only have sewing thread in my box.
Too flimsy. Not sterile.
I can’t stop the bleeding or the infection from spreading.
Septic shock feels inevitable.

Where are the antibiotics.
The pain medication.
I won’t survive without them.

Call the doctor.
Transfer me to the ICU.
I need a higher level of care.

I’ve been absent from writing for a few weeks now, and while I’m disappointed in myself for it, I’ve spent most of that time in a place of panic and limbo.

It has taken me my entire nursing career, seven and a half years, to find something that truly speaks to me. And suddenly, I was standing at an impossible crossroads. I’d become an integral part of a team I helped build, with patients I’d grown to love. I knew their faces, their stories. It’s hard not to get attached when you’ve seen some of them every single week for six months straight, or spent shifts with coworkers who fill even the hardest days with laughter.

I’d helped carry that practice through moments others struggled to survive. I’d designed systems that were more effective and found creative solutions when resources ran thin. People relied on me. I thought that kind of dedication would be met with celebration. It wasn’t. The practice started to feel like quicksand; I needed out before I suffocated.

My eyes became glued to Gmail, constantly hitting refresh. Checking application portals became both my morning and nightly ritual.

A couple of weeks passed. Then came an interview. Then a second. Then a shadow. I told myself not to get too hopeful; there’s nothing worse than getting excited only to be let down.

Still, I felt this forceful pull. I decided to put in my two weeks. My future was unclear, but I clung to a faint glimpse of hope as I waited for the offer.

In the meantime, my head spun as I crunched numbers: how long I could afford insulin and glucose sensors without coverage, what I’d do if my supplies ran out before a new job started. There was always Cobra if needed, but I’d rather not blast through my savings like that. I spent a full day off calling pharmacies to see who could fill my diabetes supplies, because as luck would have it, there was a manufacturer shortage. That’s the kind of thing healthy people don’t have to think about.

So while it felt good to have people believe in me, telling me they had no doubt I’d get the job, I spent many days fearful of how I’d manage my chronic illnesses. You might wonder why I’d put myself in that position, but something inside me, something inexplicable, kept telling me it couldn’t wait.

When the offer came, I’ll admit I was disappointed at first. It felt like a gut punch. On paper, it looked like a step down: a pay cut and a humbler title. I reminded myself that growth doesn’t always look like promotion.

But the more I studied the details, the more I realized I wasn’t stepping down at all; I was stepping into something stronger. The benefits weren’t just perks; they were lifelines. The structure and stability promised a kind of peace I hadn’t known in years: real sick days, paid holidays, a schedule that respected my body, time built in to rest and recover instead of apologizing for needing to.

And beyond all that, something deeper clicked. I’d have access to incredible physicians and specialists. I’d get more time with Bailey. I’d have space to breathe, to write again, to simply live without my work consuming me.

As I pieced it together, the anxiety started to soften into relief, and then joy. That kind of joy that comes when you realize the universe wasn’t punishing you; it was protecting you. Pushing you toward something better.

It’s still scary, of course. There’s a certain vulnerability in being the new person again, learning new rhythms. And with the darker months coming, I know the transition will test me even more. Seasonal depression always hits hard once the light starts to fade; it drags at my energy and my mood down more than baseline depression alone. I know it’s going to be a struggle adjusting to so much change while my body and brain are fighting against me.

I don’t believe in divine timing, at least not in the religious sense. But maybe the universe has its own quiet way of nudging us into the right direction.

After all, just two weeks before this snowball of events began, at 4:44 pm, I opened a fortune cookie that read:

“Your hard work is about to pay off.”

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The other day, as I was settling down after work, I had a complete meltdown over spending money. It took me over 30 minutes of tears and a grounding practice to bring me back down. Though incredibly overwhelming, this isn’t new to me. Not long ago, I had the same kind of spiral when moving into my current apartment and spending a huge chunk of money on artwork.

It’s so ingrained in me— the frugality, the hustle culture. The shame. The guilt. The constant voice on a loop recorder, replaying you shouldn’t have done that.

I picture myself shackled to a basement wall. Chained up, helpless. The outside me, the drill sergeant version of myself, is screaming in my face for even daring to spend. I’m taking vocal lashes from that version. And it’s what spending money has felt like to me for as long as I can remember.

The thing is my whole life I’ve “done everything right.” College, degree, career, homeownership. Success in all the right shapes. But while I may look traditionally successful, I am not rich in experiences.

For years I denied myself. Denied objects and comforts. In that denial I robbed myself of permission, joy, and freedom.

Now those denials are overflowing. I’m busted at the seams. My wants and needs, the ones I’ve stifled, are pouring out. People might call it a midlife crisis. But I don’t think that’s what this is. I think “midlife crisis” is a phrase invented to shame people back into capitalism, a dull chokehold.

This doesn’t feel like a crisis. It feels like a coming into myself.

I think back to when I had the most money saved. On paper, I had security and stability. In reality, it was one of the loneliest times of my life.

I was working nights in the hospital. My sleep schedule was opposite my body’s circadian rhythm. I shopped in the excruciatingly fluorescent lights at Walmart at 2 a.m., walking down empty aisles as everyone else was asleep. I barely saw my friends and family. I was isolated, unhealthy, and deteriorating.

The floor I worked on was brutal. A step-down unit that wasn’t officially labeled as one, so we never got the staffing we truly needed. Patients were ungrateful and yelling. Management stretched us thin, and the patient-to-nurse ratios were not just borderline dangerous, they simply were. I remember thinking how staying there was a major liability and potential threat to my license. Not because I didn’t care. Not because I’m a bad nurse. But just because of how chaotic and under-supported we were, in addition to the day shift/night shift rivalry. The only thing that kept me afloat was my coworkers and post-shift drinks at Rigazzi’s— one of the only local places to serve alcohol that early.

My body and sanity were wrecked. Yes, I was saving money, but at what cost? My health. My relationships. My joy. I saw money in my bank account but bankruptcy in my actual life.

It sent me straight into burnout.

I’ve come to realize that burnout isn’t a single moment. It isn’t an endpoint. It’s every single micro-moment that builds before the explosion.

EVERY

ignored need,

skipped meal,

hour of missed sleep,

missed phone call,

missed get-together,

time you swallow your exhaustion and “power through”.

When I left the townhouse I rented with my younger cousin, I had a substantial amount of money. I thought this was the perfect moment to do what everyone is told to do: buy a house.

But that “investment” turned out to be its own paradox. Because instead of building me, it drained me. It swallowed my savings. It pushed me into credit card debt. I worried more about the house than I did about myself. I poured more into fixing walls than I did into my own body. I honestly believe that house made me sick— mentally, emotionally, and physically.

I was ridiculed for the area my house was in. Judgment attacking me for buying it, and for selling it. And yet, when I sold it, I made a profit. Enough to pay off my credit card debt. Enough to pay off my car.

The house sucked the money and life out of me while I lived there. Yet, only once I stepped away did it finally give something back.

I’m not even 32 yet. But I look at my life so far and the experiences are painfully thin. I’ve only been to Florida once, in 2004. Memphis once, for my best friend’s bachelorette party. A handful of time to a few places in Missouri. I grew up in Illinois. I’ve traveled outside of the country two times— once with my family to Jamaica, which was the first time I’d ever flown. The other time on a cruise, the only once I’ve been on since. That’s it. Out of 50 states, I’ve seen maybe three.

Meanwhile, I poured everything into “success.” Into owning a home. Into making car payments. Into feeding the image of stability. If “success” were a parasite, it would be a leech, and I its host, withering away.

That’s why right now I’m hyper-fixated on buying a pop-up camper.

When I think about it, I feel this pull in my chest. Freedom. Mobility. The chance to pick up and go. To see new places, maybe meet new people, maybe build deeper connections with the people I already know. To finally living my life instead of just funding my death.

People think it’s impulsive. They think I should be saving. Saving for what? For the next house? For the retirement I may not live long enough to enjoy?

I talked to my brother about it, trying to get some practical advice about towing capacity. I asked him how much his truck could haul. And he said, “I don’t mean to pry, but do you even have the finances for this right now?”

I told him yes; I have a bit of money left over from selling my house.

Then he asked, “Well what about the next house?”

And I said, There is no next house.

He asked, “I thought you were going to rent for three years and then re-qualify for a new-homeowner’s loan?”

And I told him that was just an idea I tossed around. But when I really thought about it, I realized that’s not actually what I wanted. It was pressure. From society. From my parents. Pressure about what success is supposed to look like, with owning a home and having children being the pinnacle of pride.

I don’t believe that anymore.

I know my body. I know my health. With my chronic conditions, I likely won’t have a long, functionally well life. I don’t get to grind now and hope to enjoy it later.

I am still working toward a better-paying job. I need that to take care of myself, Bailey, Beefy, and all our health. But once the bills are covered, I don’t want to fall into the same trap of shoveling money into a future that’s not promised. I want to actually live. Right now.

So I’m unshackling myself from that basement wall. I’m silencing the drill sergeant version of me. I won’t buy into the version of success that was sold to me.

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When I first heard the news of Charlie Kirk’s death, I waited a day before writing my piece, Malice in a Megaphone. That pause is typical for me. It always takes time to sift through emotion, to make sure I’m not writing from pure reaction. At the time, I thought relief was what I felt. And maybe it was.

But then I stumbled across a video that pierced deeper. Not because it was exciting or joyous, but because it was raw. It picked at a thread I didn’t even know was there, and as it unraveled, I saw that Charlie Kirk’s voice was nowhere near silenced. The system isn’t built for that. It feeds on voices like his, like a parasite, until it takes over. It spreads like mold — from invisible spores to an engulfing rot.

If you celebrate, you fuel the machine.

If you perform grief, you fuel the machine.

Either way, the system wins, because it knows how to turn both reactions into power.

Charlie Kirk was, and still is, a vector for cruelty and fear in a system where the demand was already waiting. And now, that same machine will use his death as intended: parading it as proof, as martyrdom, as justification for more division.

So I find myself in a different place than I began, with neither relief nor mourning. What I feel most is disdain for the cycle itself, for how easily death gets conscripted into the service of power.

The work isn’t to react to him, alive or dead. The work is to stay focused on the machine that created him, and that is already finding new ways to use him still.

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