Counting Losses in a House That Isn’t Mine

It’s 5:47 PM on December 7, 2024, and if I’m being honest, I’m drowning in the quiet chaos of my thoughts. Today is my aunt’s anniversary. I saw her just yesterday while she was doing her hair with her sister-in-law. Tomorrow, there’s supposed to be an assembly for our congregation, but chances are, I’ll end up going to meetings and service with my uncle instead.

But let me tell you what I did today: nothing. Absolutely nothing. Unless you count lying in bed with a throat that feels like sandpaper and the creeping suspicion that the flu is waiting to pounce. I’ve been downing my DPH like a lifeline, but it’s not helping. I woke up this morning and the first thing I wished for wasn’t health or energy—it was a different life entirely.

I imagined waking up in my own home, a place that’s mine. With my own car parked outside, businesses thriving under my name, and—dare I say it—80 to 100 pounds less on my body. That thought hit me like a truck, and it’s been sitting heavy on my chest all day.

Sure, I have a roof over my head. I have food, electricity, running water, and Wi-Fi. And I’m grateful for that—truly, I am. But gratitude doesn’t stop the longing. It doesn’t quiet the ache of wanting more. I want a place where I can breathe, where the walls and the furniture feel like they belong to me.

I want to earn. I want stability. A reliable income that can cover more than just survival. I dream of fixing up an office space where I can work in peace, painting the walls in colors that inspire me, repairing doors and bathrooms so the house feels whole again. I want peace—a peace I can call my own.

I thought about getting up today, thought about dragging myself out of this slump to do my hair, my nails, maybe even some skincare. I imagined fresh sheets on my bed, the room scented with something crisp and new, plug-in air fresheners quietly humming in the corners. I even thought about shopping—new shoes, new clothes, things that make me feel ready for anything. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Sometimes, I think I should have had it all figured out by now. At 26, shouldn’t I know what works for me? Shouldn’t I have been smarter, made better decisions, built a foundation that actually holds? But here I am, grasping at straws, wishing I was in a better mental, emotional, and financial space.

I’ve been running ads for my business, throwing money I don’t even have at campaigns, hoping to bring in clients. And sure, people are reaching out—but they’re not spending. You can’t force someone to invest in you, no matter how desperately you need it. Yesterday, I got one sale. Just one. I should feel grateful for that, but all I can think about is how I wish it were ten. Hell, I’d settle for one sale a day that nets me $10,000. If I could just have that much certainty, maybe I’d breathe easier.

But instead, the weeks stretch on with no surety. I’ve had to dip into my savings just to cover expenses while my parents are away on vacation. And yeah, that stings. It stings to watch the little safety net I had unravel for things that feel so small but are so necessary.

I feel bad. No, I feel worse than bad—I feel miserable. I hate this. I hate feeling stuck, feeling like every decision I make is the wrong one, feeling like nothing I do will ever be enough. And it’s not just today. Every day, I feel my faith and hope shrink a little more.

Everywhere I look, I see things working out for other people. They’re building lives, finding success, achieving the things I’m still dreaming about. And me? I’m here, stuck in this endless cycle of trying and failing and doubting and trying again.

At this point, I don’t even know what to believe anymore. I don’t know how to feel, how to hope, how to plan for a future that feels so far away. The days bleed into each other, and I’ve started to kill time just to avoid the weight of it all. I sleep until 10 or 11 AM so the hours feel shorter. I go places I don’t want to go, talk to people I barely know, try new things just to distract myself. Anything to fill the void, to silence the thoughts that creep in when the world gets too quiet.

I’m tired. Tired of wanting, tired of waiting, tired of feeling like I’m not enough. And yet, despite everything, there’s this tiny, stubborn part of me that refuses to let go completely. It’s the part that writes these words, hoping that somewhere in the telling, I’ll find a glimmer of clarity or strength or something to hold on to.

So here I am, spilling my heart onto the page at 5:47 PM on a chilly December evening. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe it won’t. But for now, this is all I have: a restless heart, a racing mind, and a fragile hope that refuses to die.