Word of the Day: Perseverance

I’ve been sitting with a strange mixture of feelings lately. The kind you can’t quite describe in full, because part of growing up is learning to keep a few truths to yourself—not out of shame, but out of necessity. Maybe it’s emotional survival. Maybe it’s just maturity. Whatever the case, I’m learning to live with unsaid things. To carry them like invisible bags slung over my shoulders, hoping that one day I’ll set them down in the right place.

Right now, my focus is simple: save up enough money to move out. I’m nearly there. One more month of scraping by, saying no to small luxuries, cooking at home even when I’m too tired to wash a pan, and pretending that ramen is a creative dish and not just... what’s left. I know it’s going to be worth it. I can feel the edge of freedom, like a thread I’m so close to pulling loose.

But being frugal is exhausting. Not just financially, but mentally. Constantly calculating, checking my balance before ordering even the cheapest thing. There’s this persistent tension, like my thoughts are tightropes between wants and needs. Still, what keeps me going is the vision of what’s next: a quiet job, maybe in medical coding. Something behind the scenes. Just me, a screen, and some data. I could disappear into that kind of work in the best way. Peaceful, predictable. That sounds like heaven right now.

I rewatched FernGully the other night. I don’t know why that movie always makes me cry, especially the part where the elder fairy dissolves into light. I guess it just feels too close to home. Like time itself is slipping by and there’s nothing I can do to slow it down. I feel boring, sometimes. Stuck in routines that aren’t routines yet. Like I'm waiting for life to begin, but also realizing this is life.

I didn’t want to admit that out loud, but this is the only place I feel like I can say it. When everything else feels like performance, writing is the only stage where I don’t have to wear a mask. If I don’t say these things here, I think I’d implode a little bit in real life. So here I am, whispering my truths to the void.

On a brighter note, I’ve been gaining subscribers on Medium. I’m still figuring out what that space means for me. It feels more professional than Vocal—like I should be producing polished, themed essays instead of the free-form mind dumps I do here. I don’t know how to reconcile the two yet. Maybe they’re different parts of me. One is public-facing, curated. The other is personal and raw. There’s room for both, I think. I hope.

I’ve decided to start studying for medical coding. It’s not glamorous, but it feels like the right move. A steady job, remote if I’m lucky, and enough pay to build a life that doesn’t feel like a game of survival. I think I should start applying to places now, but my computer is barely hanging on. It can’t handle much streaming or multitasking. It’s frustrating—like I have the will, but not the tools.

Twitch used to be my space. I had a little community, people who showed up for me. But with the tech issues and my current energy levels, I’ve become a passive viewer. Watching others thrive where I once felt strong. It's humbling. And honestly, kind of funny in a cosmic way. Popularity really is fleeting. One minute you're the center of something, and the next you're a footnote. But I don’t mind too much. I’m still writing, and that helps me stay grounded.

Sometimes I feel like I’m floating away, especially when I’m high. It’s like I lose my grip on time and reality. Writing is my anchor. A way to pull myself back down. Until I can work again and feel like I’m contributing something tangible, writing is the job. It’s not paid (yet), but it’s work nonetheless. Work that clears out my mental fog.

It’s kind of funny when you think about it. Living to work. Isn’t that what we all do, in some way? Whether it’s a job or a project or a role we fill—parent, student, friend—we’re all doing something to keep the machine running. The only real choice is whether you let it consume you or you make peace with it.

I got this weird swelling around my eye recently. Sneezing fits that won’t quit. I think it might be hay fever, but I’ve never really had that before. As a kid, all my allergies went straight to my ears. Now it’s my eyes. Maybe it’s the headphones. I wear them constantly, even when there’s no music playing. They’re like armor. Soundproof comfort.

I have a little extra money right now—enough to do something fun with—but I’m choosing not to. I’m trying to be “good.” Responsible. Future-focused. It’s hard. There’s a fine line between discipline and deprivation. I’m not sure which side I’m on.

My new to-do list system is helping. I keep it on one page, max. That’s the rule. One page a day. It started off as a chore tracker—cleaning, calls, appointments—but now I’m slipping in digital tasks, like writing goals and social media updates. It’s becoming a hybrid planner/notebook/therapy journal. But hey, it works. Every checkmark is a tiny win. Even the Xs, the ones where I push tasks to tomorrow or note that someone else handled it, feel like part of the rhythm.

Maybe that’s the trick—finding systems that reflect your reality, not some idealized version of productivity. Life is messy. So my planner is too. But if I can keep filling it in, day after day, then I know I’m still showing up. That counts for something.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and start again. Maybe I’ll apply to a job. Maybe I’ll just write. Maybe I’ll finally deep-clean the bathroom. Who knows. The world is full of maybes. But the one thing I do know? I’m still here. Still trying.

And for now, that’s enough.