I’m tired.
Not “I need a nap” tired. Not “Let’s book a self-care weekend,” tired. I mean soul-deep, emotional-core-on-fire tired. The kind of tired that comes from constantly pushing, performing, producing and still ending up in goddamn limbo.
I need steady work. Not another one-off gig. Not another “We loved your energy, but…” Not another project where I pour my time and talent into building someone else’s dream without even a whiff of security for mine.
The wild part? I know what I bring to the table.
I can write blog posts that rank and convert. I’ve built brand voices from scratch, managed communities of thousands, and ghostwritten content that’s gone viral for founders. I’ve produced and edited over 10,000 hours of tech podcast content…booked guests, crafted questions, built launch plans. I can strategize your funnel, build your nurture campaign, and turn your dry product updates into actual stories people want to read.
I’ve also launched blogs. Run social accounts. Built websites. Designed lead magnets. Created nurture workflows in HubSpot, cleaned up broken SEO, and turned inconsistent brand vibes into something cohesive, compelling, and clear. I know how to get people talking about your stuff…and for the right reasons.
And still, here I am, cobbling together short-term contracts like I’m playing a game of freelance Jenga, where one dropped client means the whole tower could come crashing down.
And let’s not even talk about how it feels to be overqualified and underpaid—a combo that’s infuriating and exhausting. You send off a pitch you’re proud of, or a proposal that includes your actual rates, and people act like you’ve asked to borrow their beach house. I’ve been told “we’re just not ready for marketing yet,” while their competitors are out here crushing it because they invested in strategy, content, and visibility from the beginning.
Meanwhile, real life doesn’t pause. There are bills. Medical stuff. A teenager who’s amazing and growing up fast, and somehow needs $100 for something every time I blink. There’s a wedding I’m planning with my partner, Keith, who’s been through his own personal hell with ongoing chronic health issues—and we’re doing all of this while juggling uncertainty like it’s a damn sport.
I’m the breadwinner. The scheduler. The one who figures it out. The one who shows up smiling to meetings even when I’m falling apart between calls. I’m holding it down in ways most people never see. And I’m doing it sober. Four years in recovery. Four years of choosing to feel everything I used to numb away. That’s no small thing.
And let’s be clear: I’m not bitter. I’m just done pretending that needing consistency is asking for too much.
I love what I do. I’m damn good at what I do. I’m not scared of hard work, tight deadlines, or learning curves. What I am scared of? Burnout so deep that I lose the spark that got me into this in the first place.
I miss loving what I do without the cloud of financial panic hanging over it. I miss feeling grounded instead of scattered. I miss being able to say yes to a trip or a dinner or a moment of rest without calculating what it might cost me in lost income or guilt. I want to build something real. Something sustainable. Something that doesn’t require me to constantly choose between my peace and my paycheck.
If you’re in the same place: tired, talented, and just trying to get your footing…I see you. I am you.
We don’t need another pep talk. We need a break. We need a “yes.” We need someone to look at our work, our hearts, our fire, and say, “I see what you’ve built. Let’s build something together.”
Until then, I’ll keep going.
But damn, Universe—anytime you want to throw me that bone, I’m am ready!
And as if all of that weren’t enough, life decided to throw another wrench. Keith’s been in the hospital again.
It’s been weeks now. A revolving door of doctors, uncertainty, and that constant tightrope walk between “he’s stable” and “we don’t really know yet.” I’ve lost count of how many nights I’ve sat by the phone, how many meals I’ve skipped, how many moments I’ve had to pull myself together so I can be strong for him, for our kids, for the rest of the world.
We’ve done this dance before: me with the laptop in my lap beside his hospital bed, answering emails, writing copy, editing podcasts. Smiling when people ask how I’m doing. “We’re hanging in there,” I say. But hanging onto what? Thin threads and stubborn hope.
There’s something uniquely cruel about being in crisis and broke at the same time. About having to ask yourself, “Can I afford to be with the person I love in the hospital today, or do I need to chase another invoice just to keep the lights on?” I hate that. I hate that this is how we live right now.
He’s the love of my life. My best friend. My anchor. And he’s hurting. And I’m trying to hold it all—grief, hope, rage, logistics, love, fear, and 37 open Chrome tabs. Every day I wake up and think, just get through today. And I do. But it costs something: my sanity.
I know I’m not the only one walking through fire quietly. I know there are so many of us: caretakers, partners, parents, creatives, survivors—trying to make a life out of the chaos we’re each dealt. Trying to show up with grace while the world burns just out of frame.
So yeah. I need steady work. But it’s not just about money. It’s about breathing room. About knowing I can support my family and still be present for them. About not having to choose between survival and showing up at Keith’s bedside.
Once more: I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing it for truth. Because I don’t believe in pretending everything’s fine when it’s clearly not. And because I know someone else out there is sitting in a hospital cafeteria with a half-eaten granola bar and a Slack notification lighting up their phone, wondering how the hell they’re going to keep it all together.
They say if you say it out loud, it starts to move. That speaking it into the world is the first step in it coming true. So here I am, saying it plainly:
I need steady work.
I need space to breathe, space to show up, space to stop choosing between love and survival.
And maybe—just maybe—saying it out loud will be enough to shift something.