A 26-Year-Old’s Quiet Collapse

Here I am, sitting in the middle of another December day, feeling like my body is betraying me. There’s this creeping sensation, this ache in my throat and a weight in my chest that whispers, you’re getting sick. It’s as if the universe knows I can’t handle even one more thing right now, so naturally, it piles this on. I dragged myself out earlier, unwilling but resigned, to grab some DPH because, frankly, I cannot afford to let the flu take me out. The math is simple: a couple hundred dollars now to stave off days of misery is the kind of economics my life currently demands. If I had more money, I’d have thrown Panadol in the mix. But we’re not living in “if onlys,” are we?

If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine what today could have been. In some alternate universe, this is the kind of day where I’m 80—no, 100 pounds lighter, confidently stepping into my Mercedes-Benz. I’d be pulling into the driveway of my house, my own little corner of the world carved out and solid beneath my feet. Not this endless shuffle from one space to another, one worry to the next. My day would look completely different: laundry done, sheets changed, the scent of something fresh and indulgent wafting through my home. Maybe sandalwood. Or vanilla. Something that feels like I’ve made it.

Grocery shopping would be on the agenda, too—something so mundane yet so grounding. I wouldn’t be waiting until the last minute to scrape together a list. No, I’d have everything planned, stocked, prepped. And there’d be no holding back. My cart would be filled with the things I actually want, not just the things I need. I wouldn’t be standing in the aisle debating between brands based on a couple of dollars. Instead, I’d be walking through life with the assurance that comes with knowing I’ve got everything under control.

But reality has a way of pulling me back. I can barely keep up with the basics now, let alone picture the luxury of ease. My washing machine is broken, which feels like a metaphor for everything else in my life—everything piling up, dirty and neglected, waiting for a fix that may or may not come. All my clothes are in that state, and I’m left scrambling to find someone to repair it. I don’t even want to think about the cost. This is why I dream about a life where I don’t have to wash every month, or even every two months. A life where I can afford to let things pile up for three months because I’d have a wardrobe big enough, a life smooth enough, that it wouldn’t matter.

It’s not just the laundry or the flu, though. It’s me. My body, my weight, the way I feel trapped in this size and all it represents. I’m tired of being in a 3XL, tired of walking into stores and finding that nothing feels like me. I want to be in a small or a medium. I want to shed these layers of discomfort, both physical and emotional, so life can feel lighter in every sense.

Today, my thoughts wandered to another dream—a recurring one, really. A life where I’m booked and busy, a life where I own properties in St. James, St. Ann, and Hanover. Apartments and homes that are mine, spaces where I can retreat or host or just be. I wouldn’t be tied down, either. I’d be traveling constantly—if not every day, then at least every month. I’d have the kind of freedom that comes with success, with knowing you’ve made it. But here I am, grounded not by choice but by circumstance, staring down a financial state that feels like quicksand.

Most days, I’m not sure what’s worse: the emotional weight of my situation or the mental toll it’s taking. I feel like I’m losing my grip, my mind unraveling a little more with every passing day. It’s why I waste my time so deliberately—because what else is there to do? I go for a walk in the morning, hoping the movement will shake something loose, a feeling or a thought that will make it all feel worthwhile. Then I come home and sleep until the late morning or early afternoon, a kind of escape from the endless loop of disappointment.

By 5:00 PM, I’m back out walking again, chasing a sunset that feels just as unreachable as everything else I want. The nights are a blur of shows and distractions, anything to keep the emptiness at bay until I can drift off to sleep. And then I wake up and do it all over again. It’s a sad rhythm, but it’s mine. It’s what’s keeping me afloat—or at least keeping me from completely going under.

I wish I could say I’m holding out hope for some miraculous turnaround, but the truth is, I don’t think things will change. December 2024 feels no different from December 2023, and that realization weighs heavier on me than anything else. I’ve spent an entire year circling the same drain, and I’m no closer to the life I want than I was 12 months ago.

Still, there’s a part of me—small, stubborn, and scared—that’s watching to see what happens next. It’s not hope exactly. Maybe curiosity? Maybe desperation? Whatever it is, it’s what gets me out of bed, what pushes me to write these words, what makes me lace up my shoes for another walk.

I don’t know what this month will bring. Maybe nothing will change. Maybe I’ll stay stuck in this endless cycle of wishing and waiting. Or maybe—just maybe—something will shift. I doubt it, but we’ll see. That’s all I’ve got right now: the faintest flicker of we’ll see. And maybe, for today, that’s enough.