The way out is through

Yet, the hits keep coming.

Some mornings, I wake up and I have no idea how I’m going to make it through the day.

That’s not a dramatic statement. It’s just the truth. Things are heavy right now, and the weight keeps shifting. Every time I get my footing, something knocks me off balance again. I keep saying, "The way out is through," like it’s a map. But most days, it feels like wandering in the dark.

My dad had a stroke. He’s in his eighties. We’re juggling doctors, surgery talk, and what “recovery” might look like. Nobody seems sure. Meanwhile, my mom’s in and out of the ER with a kidney stone that’s doing its best to shut down her system. She’s tired. I’m tired. Everyone’s tired. There are too many waiting rooms, too many decisions, and not enough answers.

Then there's the grief that settled into the cracks. My nephew took his own life. I’m still reeling. He was young. He was lost. He didn’t ask for help. I didn’t push hard enough. I’m trying to make sense of the wreckage he left behind, his journals, his fears, his pain. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand it.

It’s like grief took up a seat at the table and unpacked its bags. It’s not just about Brian. It’s every other loss that grief calls to the surface. It’s the memories I didn’t ask for, showing up like old ghosts.

Then my dog died. Lucy. Old, sweet, stubborn Lucy. The one who always knew when I was about to lose it. The one who kept me tethered when nothing else could. I thought I was ready for that loss. I wasn’t.

Some days, I walk around like I’m sleepwalking. I go through the motions. I pay bills. I do my job. I take care of the house. I try to keep my parents comfortable. I try to keep myself from unraveling. It’s like playing emotional whack-a-mole. Something always pops up.

I’ve been leaning on friends more than usual. I’m not good at it. I hate asking for help. I don’t want to feel like a burden. I’m learning. People care. They show up in quiet ways, texts, rides, dropped-off dinners, check-ins that feel like lifelines. I’m learning to let them in.

That’s the start of the solution, I think. Letting people in. Saying the thing out loud before it eats you alive. Saying, "I'm not okay," and letting that be enough.

I’ve been writing more. In my notebook. On Substack. Wherever I can. I’m not trying to be profound. I’m just trying to get it out. Writing gives shape to the fog. It reminds me I’m still here. It keeps me honest.

I’m doing small things to stay grounded. I drink water. I try to eat decent food. I sit in the sun for ten minutes when I can. I listen to records. I talk to friends. I take photos of things that don’t move, old buildings, empty parking lots, quiet corners of town. Those small rituals help.

I don’t have a five-step plan to fix this. I don’t think one exists. Life doesn’t offer refunds or reroutes. It just keeps going. Within that mess, I’m finding pieces to hold onto.

There’s beauty in small things. In kindness. In the absurd. In hearing an old song that hits you in the gut. In the way grief teaches you to pay attention to what matters. In laughing at something dumb and letting yourself feel joy without guilt.

This isn’t about resilience. That word is tired. Worn out. Used to shame people into pretending they’re fine. I’m not fine. I’m just trying.

So here’s the deal. I’m going to keep showing up. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because this is the only life I get, and I want to feel it. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

I won’t pretend this is easy. It’s not. I’m not alone, and neither are you. There’s something human in the mess of it all. Something worth holding onto.

I’m not the Wizard. There’s no curtain. Just me, figuring it out one breath at a time.

For now, that’s enough.