Dancing Between Paychecks and People

I walked through the almost-finished park today, a place not many know exists yet. There’s a space in it that seems made for dancing. I sat down, trying to breathe, trying to think. I had groceries in my bag and numbers in my head—budgeting, expenses, next steps. I’m always either running after money or recovering from chasing it.

Today was supposed to be simple. A little grocery shopping. Maybe a dance class in the evening. But inside my mind, there’s nothing simple. There’s a chaos of ambition and exhaustion, of wanting to rest and wanting to achieve. I try to plan my time, I try to be wise, but the truth is I’m constantly negotiating with fatigue.

I keep thinking about money. I want to earn it, grow it, stretch it. I want to plant seeds now so I can one day stop panicking at the till. The idea of financial stability has become almost erotic to me—not because I want luxury but because I want to stop surviving and start choosing.

Sometimes I get so wired—too much caffeine, too many tabs open in my brain—I forget basic things, like starting the washing machine after loading it. I’m juggling everything: creative work, admin tasks, emotional processing, and keeping my home liveable. And I still end the day wondering if I’ve done enough.

My friend R. messaged me again. She’s navigating some complicated systems—forms, aid, services I don’t fully understand. I try to be present for her, but it’s hard. I feel guilty for not keeping up, but also depleted. I’m not her therapist. I’m not her saviour. And I have to stop offering parts of myself that I need to survive.

Then there’s P. He showed up unexpectedly the other night, all the way from his village in the mountains, just to dance. Later, I invited him in. It was quiet and warm and beautifully human. The next day, he told me abou his ex. That he felt imprisoned in that relationship not because of exclusivity but because of a lack of tenderness on her side.

That word stayed with me. Tenderness.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m made of sunlight. Other times, I feel like I’m holding a thousand unspoken things in my chest. He’s everything at once—present and distant, soft and slippery. And while I try not to spiral, my mind still wonders: Is he drifting away? Does he want someone easier to read, easier to hold? Does it bother him that I’m taller, heavier?

It’s ridiculous. I see couples every day who don’t fit the norm, and I think they’re beautiful. But when it comes to me, my insecurities scream louder than logic.

Lately, he’s been distracted. He wants sex, but I’ve slowed things down. It was worth it. Even so, sometimes he has trouble getting it up, and I wonder if I’m enough. Then I get mad at myself for wondering. I’m tired of reading between lines that were never drawn for me in the first place.

So I write. I sweep the floor. I trim my hair. I try to create order in small ways. I list what I’m grateful for: my body, my bit of income, my art, my own persistence. The way a stranger smiles. The breeze through my window. My own company, still intact.

Some nights, I imagine someone strong and grounded who lifts me off the ground and says, “You don’t have to do it all.” I don’t know if that person exists. But I know I do. And I’m still here—dancing between paychecks and people, between wanting more and wanting rest.

Tomorrow I’ll try again, but not because I failed today—because I’m still here. And this messy, tender life is still mine.