Keith came home from the hospital this week. Which sounds like it should be a relief, right? It is. And it isn’t. It’s more like one of those moments where your brain short-circuits trying to feel too many things at once: relief, exhaustion, gratitude, dread, grief, adrenaline, and “what the actual fuck” all standing awkwardly in the same room. This isn’t the end of a saga. It’s just the next chapter. Same story, slightly different trauma flavor.
This week has felt like a fever dream. I’ve been juggling hospital discharge logistics, financial stress that’s pressing in from all sides, wedding planning, parenting, work deadlines, my own mental health, which I think left the chat sometime around Tuesday, and applying for jobs like it’s a full-time job in itself. Nothing like trying to sound polished and professional in a cover letter when your real answer to “Why do you want this role?” is “Because I’m tired of having a panic attack every time I open my bank app.”
At one point, I realized I’d been operating purely on caffeine, fight-or-flight, and sarcasm. Honestly, I’m amazed I didn’t just combust into glitter and smoke.
And of course, I had to do the thing I hate most: ask for help. I posted our Venmo on Facebook. I tried to be light about it, wrapped it in a little humor, and told myself it was fine. But it still felt like peeling off a layer of skin. Vulnerability always does. And yet, people showed up. People sent dinner money. People messaged just to say, “I see you.” And for once, I let myself feel held. Not fixed, not rescued—just held.
There’s a weird kind of grief that comes when things “get better” but you’re too tired to celebrate. That’s where I’m at. Keith is home, and that’s huge. He made it through, and I’m so grateful. But nothing else paused. The bills didn’t stop. The wedding didn’t plan itself. The job applications didn’t magically submit themselves. The world didn’t suddenly get easier. And I’m still here, trying to hold it all while wondering how much longer I can keep pretending I’m fine.
This isn’t a motivational post. There’s no bow at the end, no neatly packaged lesson. This is just what it looks like sometimes: the middle of the mess, the part no one wants to talk about. The part where you’re not breaking down, exactly—but you’re not thriving either. You’re just existing. Breathing. Sending out another resume. Waiting for your body and brain to sync back up.
If you’re here too—if you’re barely keeping your head above water and still somehow cracking jokes—I see you. Maybe we don’t need clarity this week. Maybe we just need confirmation that we’re not the only ones paddling through chaos with a cracked oar, a dead phone battery, and a stubborn little fire still burning somewhere inside us. Maybe survival is enough. Maybe showing up—raw and messy and real—is the win.
We’re still here. Still trying. Still doing the damn thing. And honestly? That’s more than enough.
If you feel like sending a little love (or, let’s be honest, dinner), you can find me on Venmo: @exhotmess. Every bit of kindness helps more than you know.