Unwritten Chapters: The Path From Lost to Found

I wrote my first Vocal.Media post sitting on the floor of a laundromat during the pandemic.

It smelled like lavender detergent and burnt plastic, and the machines screamed in harmony, but none of that mattered. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t worried about anyone but myself. COVID was wreaking havoc on the world outside, but inside that noisy little bubble, I felt something I hadn’t in years: control.

Maybe moving during a pandemic wasn’t the wisest choice—but it was mine. And after a lifetime of being tugged by other people’s expectations, “mine” felt revolutionary. I left Pittsburgh in a whirlwind and didn’t bother packing sentimentality. Just survival.

Fast-forward to a fluorescent purgatory: a big-box retail job that numbed every part of me that once dreamed big.

Management was a rotating door of confusion. Morale was low. I punched in, punched out, and tried not to drown in the routine. I still wanted to be an author—note: still haven't made it—but that version of me felt like a ghost I’d forgotten how to chase.

Then, three years in, I quit. Just like that. No backup plan. No big announcement. Just a single, unshakable thought:

"I can’t keep doing this."

Spoiler: it was not the most financially sound decision. But sometimes, survival means cutting the rope tied around your neck, even if you’re not sure what you're jumping into.

I tried my hand at a few things to keep the flame of passion alive—copywriting and ghostwriting, fueling the creative drive I had been ignoring. But it was short-lived. I couldn’t catch the spark. I even attempted opening a blog. Yet, as I found myself constantly on the road with the pet transport business, the creative void didn’t get filled. So, I gave up on that, too.

What followed was chaos, but the beautiful kind—the messy middle that usually gets edited out in the movies.

I delivered pizzas on the beach. I worked in a vape shop. I stopped writing. I started again.

Then came the pivot: I launched a pet transportation business. I drove thousands of animals across the U.S. and spent two years building something that felt like mine. In 2024 alone, I logged over 300,000 miles—from the Canadian border in Washington to the southern tip of Florida.

(Still haven’t made it to the Grand Canyon. Life’s funny that way.)

But all good things burn out. One catastrophic vehicle breakdown later, my business crumbled. The job I built, the freedom I earned, the confidence I finally had—it all slipped through my fingers in a matter of weeks.

Along with that loss came some unsavory friendships—relationships that scrutinized me when I was vulnerable and made me question my own worth. But not everything was bleak. I still got to do some unexpected things I’d never imagined.

I tried deep sea fishing. Spent a lot of time in New Mexico and California. Met new people—better people—and started finding the pieces of myself I’d buried. I learned how to assess my own mental health, which wasn’t easy. I even dipped my toes into wholesale real estate, though it was short-lived. I'd love to give it another shot one day.

I also picked up my pen again, with renewed resolve to write that book I’ve been talking about for years. And as life threw curveballs, I came to terms with something I never thought I’d consider: a new job that gave me a sense of purpose. Becoming a virtual assistant was a surprising twist, but it satisfied my desire to help people while doing a lot of writing.

Five years.

That’s how long it took to go from lost to hopeful to shattered and back again. These days, I’m back to remote work—blogging, writing, freelancing. I play games on my phone for cash. It’s not glamorous. It’s not the dream. But I’m still here.

And I’m still writing.

Even if it’s from a couch instead of a laundromat floor.

Every day feels like a small war between hope and heaviness. But I remind myself: everything I’ve done before, I did on my own terms. And with that same free will, I’ll claw my way back to something brighter.

This isn’t a comeback story—yet.

But it’s a reminder that survival is an art. And I’m still creating.