Redefining Life: Piece by Piece

The boxes were everywhere. Piled against the far wall of my mother’s family room, stacked high with the remnants of my old life—what little was left of it. I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the faded cardboard, each one filled with fragments of a life I had once built with so much hope. I had lost my job. Then my home. Then, piece by piece, I had sold everything I could to keep food on the table. The couch I once curled up on after a long day at work? Gone. The dining table where my family and I had shared countless meals? Sold. The fun car bed where I had once tucked my child in at night, whispering stories of dreams and possibilities? Replaced by a simple mattress overnight.

Desperate to turn things around, I used the last of my savings to buy an old trailer, hoping to fix it up and sell it for a profit. I sent money to my cousin to handle the repairs, trusting that he would help me make something out of what little I had left. But he took the money for himself, leaving the trailer a mess and my hopes shattered. It was another blow, another betrayal, and it felt like I was sinking even deeper into a hole I couldn’t climb out of.

Loneliness became my closest companion. Depression settled in like an unwanted guest who refused to leave. The world had changed after the pandemic, and I had changed, too. I used to be strong. I used to have direction. Now, I was lost, drifting in a sea of sadness, exhaustion, and uncertainty. I wanted to give up. Every day felt like an uphill battle, and I was tired. So incredibly tired. Being a mom meant that I couldn’t just collapse under the weight of it all, but God, I wanted to. I wanted to close my eyes and just make it all stop—the stress, the fear, the overwhelming sense of failure that gnawed at me day and night. But life doesn’t stop when you’re drowning. And my child needed me. So, I kept moving, even when my legs felt like lead. I woke up each day, made breakfast, packed lunches, and smiled when I wanted to cry. I scrolled through job postings at night, fingers trembling over the keyboard, rewriting my resume, wondering if anyone would take a chance on me.

Wondering if I was worth it.

One day, my mother sat next to me, placing a warm hand over mine. "You’re going to make it through this," she said softly. Her eyes held the kind of certainty I had long lost in myself. "This is just a chapter, not the whole book." I wanted to believe her. Weeks passed. Then months. Little by little, I started to pick up the pieces. I applied for jobs. I interviewed. I faced rejection after rejection, but I kept going. Because I had to. Because I wasn’t just fighting for myself—I was fighting for my child, for our future, for the life I knew we deserved.

For a year and a half, we survived on credit, moving from our home into a cramped apartment that barely fit us, and finally to my mother's house. The walls felt tighter with each passing month, suffocating under the weight of uncertainty. After countless interviews and endless rejections, I landed a job in August of 2021. It paid significantly less than my previous role, but it was something—a chance to rebuild, even if it felt like a step backward. The loss wasn’t just financial; it was deeply personal. It felt like I had been stripped of who I once was, forced to accept a version of myself that I barely recognized.

The job wasn’t perfect, but it was an opportunity—a small beam of light cutting through the darkness I had been trapped in for so long. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I exhaled. It wasn’t the life I had before, but maybe—just maybe—it was the beginning of something new. And for now, that had to be enough.

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