Am I Just Existing?

The weight is suffocating. It wraps around my chest like a chain, pulling tighter every time I try to breathe. It’s been like this for so long that I don’t remember when it started. Was it the first time I missed a payment and felt the sharp sting of failure? Or was it when responsibilities began stacking on top of each other, towering over me like an avalanche waiting to crush everything in its path? I don’t know anymore. What I do know is that I can’t seem to find my way out

Every day begins with the same knot of dread in my stomach. My eyes snap open to the relentless beeping of the alarm, but my body feels like lead. My brain immediately starts running, cataloging the tasks ahead: deadlines, bills, errands, calls. My breath catches as I think of the emails I forgot to respond to yesterday. Another mistake. Another weight added to the pile. I haven’t even stepped out of bed yet, and I’m already exhausted.

There’s no room to rest. No time to think about how tired I feel, how drained my mind is. I don’t have that luxury. The world doesn’t wait for people like me to catch up. So, I push myself out of bed, moving like a machine. One task after another, one problem after the next. Breakfast? Skip it. I can’t think about eating when the overdue notices glare at me from my inbox. The red numbers scream louder than my hunger ever could.

I check my bank account again. It’s a habit I can’t break, even though I already know what I’ll find. A balance that barely scrapes by, enough to cover the minimum payments but never enough to breathe easy. The numbers blur together as the weight on my chest grows heavier. I think of all the things I owe—money, time, effort—and it feels like I’m drowning in promises I can’t keep.

Every step I take throughout the day feels like wading through thick mud. At work, my mind is split into pieces. I’m trying to focus on the tasks in front of me, but my thoughts keep racing to the things I haven’t done yet. The things I should be doing. The responsibilities that are waiting just outside the door, ready to drag me under the moment I pause. I glance at the clock every few minutes, not because I’m eager for the day to end, but because I’m calculating how many hours are left before the next wave of work begins.

There are no breaks. I tell myself I’ll rest when things get better, when the debts are smaller and the burdens lighter. But that day never comes. Every victory is short-lived. Pay one bill, and two more take its place. Finish one project, and a dozen new deadlines appear. The list is endless, a monster that grows hungrier no matter how much I feed it.

I used to dream of freedom. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I sacrificed enough, I would earn my way to a place where I could breathe. A place where my mind could be quiet, where I could sit still without the constant buzz of anxiety whispering, You’re falling behind. You’re not doing enough.

But that place feels farther away with every passing day. I can’t think about mental health. I don’t have the luxury to prioritize my mind when survival demands all my attention. People talk about self-care as if it’s something simple—light a candle, take a bath, meditate—but they don’t understand. My mind doesn’t stop. It’s a storm that never quiets, a relentless rush of thoughts that push and pull until I feel like I’m suffocating on my own failures.

There are moments—brief, fleeting moments—when I wonder what it would be like to let go. To stop running, to stop fighting. The thought scares me. If I stop, everything will collapse. The bills, the responsibilities, the expectations—it will all come crashing down, and I’ll be buried beneath it. So I don’t stop. I keep going, even when every part of me screams for rest.

People say you should ask for help, but I can’t. I’m the one who’s supposed to hold it together. I’m the one others depend on. I don’t have the option of falling apart. If I do, who will pick up the pieces?

The weight on my chest tightens. My breaths come in short, shallow gasps as if the air itself has grown heavy with the burden I carry. I want to scream, to cry, to release the pressure, but there’s no time for that. I push it all down, stuff it into the cracks of my soul, and keep moving forward.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—a tired, hollow version of who I used to be. My eyes are dull, the spark long gone. I wonder if anyone else can see it. I wonder if anyone notices how close I am to breaking. But then the next task calls, the next deadline looms, and I have to keep going.

The nights are the worst. When the world goes quiet, the storm inside my mind grows louder. The worries I’ve been holding at bay flood in, drowning any hope of peace. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, too tired to sleep but too restless to rest. My heart races, my thoughts spin, and I feel like I’m sinking deeper and deeper into a pit I can’t climb out of.

I think about all the times I’ve told myself, Just one more push. One more day. You can make it through this. But the truth is, I’m running on fumes. There’s nothing left to give, but I keep giving anyway because that’s the only way I know how to survive.

This isn’t living. It’s existing. It’s holding on by my fingertips, hoping the ground doesn’t give way beneath me. It’s drowning in the weight of debt, struggle, and endless responsibility with no lifeline in sight.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. But I don’t have a choice. So I take another breath—shallow, heavy, painful—and I keep moving forward. Because stopping isn’t an option. Not for me. Not now. Not ever.