I Forgot My Password and It Ruined My Entire Day

I forgot my password.

Not in a dramatic, end-of-the-world way. Not in a “someone hacked me” way. Just a regular, ordinary, soul-eroding kind of forgot my password. The kind that shouldn’t matter. The kind that absolutely does.

It was for something simple. Something I needed right then. Something that should’ve taken maybe two minutes if the world were just and God were fair.

Instead, I stared at a login screen like it had personally betrayed me.

The email address was correct. I know that much. I’ve had the same email for years. I’ve protected it like a fragile family heirloom. I’ve dragged it through job applications, school forms, doctor portals, grocery apps, random newsletters I never asked for. That email has seen things. It’s loyal.

The password, though? The password had apparently chosen a new life.

I typed what I was sure it was. Incorrect.

Okay. Fine. No problem. That happens. Maybe I used a capital letter instead of lowercase. Maybe I added an exclamation point because one time I felt spicy. I tried again. Incorrect.

I paused. I leaned back. I squinted at the screen like the answer might rise to the surface if I stared long enough. I tried a different version. Incorrect.

At this point, irritation crept in. Not anger yet. Just that low-level annoyance that whispers, You literally just used this.

Because here’s the thing: I don’t have creative passwords. I am not out here inventing encrypted riddles. I am a mother. I am tired. My passwords are practical. My passwords are built for survival.

My passwords are almost always one of my kids’ names with some numbers slapped on the end like a seatbelt.

Sometimes it’s a birthday. Sometimes it’s a random number that once meant something and now just exists. Occasionally I throw in a special character if the system threatens me enough.

But there are rules. I have a system. I am not reckless.

Which is why I knew—knew in my bones—that the password I was typing was one I had used everywhere else on God’s green internet.

This password works on my bank app. This password works on my email. This password works on things that control actual money and real consequences.

But this random platform? This random little corner of the internet? No. Absolutely not. This one decided that today, we fight.

I clicked “Forgot Password.”

Immediately, the screen shifted tone. Suddenly it was polite. Soft. Reassuring.

No problem! We’ll help you reset it.

Lies.

First step: Enter your email.

I did. Obviously. The same email. The one I’ve been loyal to. The one that has receipts older than my youngest child.

If an account exists with this email, we’ll send you a link.

That sentence alone should be illegal.

“If an account exists” is internet gaslighting. Because now I’m questioning myself. Now I’m wondering if I imagined signing up. If this whole thing was a fever dream. If I hallucinated creating an account at 2:14 a.m. six months ago because I needed one specific thing.

The email arrived. Eventually. Not immediately, of course. Because that would’ve been too kind.

I clicked the link.

This link has expired.

I laughed. Out loud. A dry, humorless laugh. The kind people do right before they start talking to inanimate objects.

I requested another link.

This time I clicked it fast. Efficient. Like a woman who has learned from her mistakes.

Now came the real trial.

Create a new password.

Here’s where things get hostile.

It can’t be any password you’ve used before. It must be at least 12 characters. It must include a capital letter. A lowercase letter. A number. A symbol. It must not include your name. It must not include your email. It must not include joy, peace, or hope.

I typed something.

Password too weak.

Weak?? This password has paid bills. This password has accessed medical records. This password has kept my life afloat.

But fine.

I added a symbol.

Password cannot include previously used passwords.

Okay. So now you’re telling me you recognize my past. You know me. You know what I’ve done. And you’re judging me for it.

I tried something else.

Password must not include common words.

My child’s name is now a common word? To whom? Since when?

I erased everything and started over, irritated now, muttering to myself like a woman solving a murder mystery.

What did I use last time? What mood was I in? Was I tired? Was I optimistic? Was it before or after dinner?

Because password creation is never neutral. It reflects your mental state at the time.

Sometimes your password is hopeful. Sometimes it’s aggressive. Sometimes it’s just “Fine123!” because you’re done negotiating with technology.

I tried again.

Accepted.

Victory, right? No.

Now I had to confirm the password.

I typed the same thing.

Passwords do not match.

I stared at the screen.

I typed it again. Slowly. Deliberately. Watching every character like a hawk.

Passwords do not match.

Now I’m offended.

Because either the system is lying, or I am losing my mind, and I don’t appreciate being forced to confront either option at this hour.

I reset it again. I copied and pasted it to be safe. Accepted. Confirmed.

Finally.

I logged in.

Or so I thought.

For security purposes, we’ve sent a verification code to your email.

Of course you have.

I opened my email. Refresh. Nothing. Refresh again. Still nothing.

I checked spam. Promotions. Updates. A newsletter I don’t remember subscribing to in 2018 had no problem finding me, but this code? Nowhere.

When it finally arrived, it had a countdown.

This code expires in 60 seconds.

Why.

Why does everything online assume I am sitting alone, uninterrupted, with perfect Wi-Fi, no children, no distractions, no life?

I typed the code. Incorrect.

I typed it again. Incorrect.

By now, I am fully aware that this is no longer about access. This is a power struggle.

I requested a new code.

This one worked.

I was in.

Technically.

But something had shifted. I no longer remembered why I needed to log in. The urgency was gone, replaced by a quiet resentment. The task had lost its meaning. I had aged. I had changed.

I navigated the site for a moment, disoriented, like someone who fought too hard for a parking spot and now doesn’t even want to go inside the store.

And that’s when it hit me.

This wasn’t just about a password.

This is how modern life works now.

Everything requires proof. Everything requires access. Everything requires remembering something you created under pressure years ago and haven’t thought about since.

We are expected to function perfectly inside systems that don’t account for fatigue, repetition, or the fact that we are human beings with children, bills, thoughts, and a limited capacity for remembering whether we used an exclamation point or a dollar sign.

I know I wrote it down somewhere. I can picture it. A notebook. Maybe a sticky note. Maybe the Notes app. Maybe the back of an envelope that made sense at the time.

But here’s the thing about writing passwords down: you never label them clearly.

You don’t write, “Password for website you’ll desperately need later.”

You write something vague. Something optimistic. Something like “login” or “important.”

So now, somewhere in my house, exists a password that would’ve saved me thirty minutes and a piece of my soul. And I will never find it.

This is adulthood.

Not taxes. Not responsibility. Not maturity.

This.

Forgetting a password you absolutely knew at one point. Being punished for reusing something that worked perfectly everywhere else. Being forced to create something new you will also forget. Being told it’s for your protection.

And tomorrow, when I log in again, I will hesitate. I will pause. I will think, What did I change it to?

And I won’t remember.

Because I never do.

And somehow, the internet will act surprised every single time.