Between the Cracks

I’m not writing this for sympathy. Not to guilt anyone. Not to perform some curated hardship for strangers to clap at.

I’m writing this because it’s 1:42 a.m. And I’m not okay.

And even though I’ve survived harder moments, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this lost in my own story. Not because I don’t know who I am. But because I’ve become too many versions of myself too fast to hold on to any one of them.

I used to be the guy who could juggle six businesses and still make time to bolt a climbing route or cook a proper breakfast. Now I eat cold fruit from a hotel fridge and wonder how I became a ghost in my own life.

I used to write job titles in the signature line of my emails. Now I dodge those forms entirely. Because I don’t know what to put.

I’m not a victim. I still have choices. I still have assets, technically. I still have friends. Sort of. I still have teeth in my mouth and air in my lungs. But it’s not fine. It’s just not as catastrophic as it looks on paper. And that’s somehow worse.

My daughter’s out there somewhere, not calling me dad. I’ve got a house I can’t afford but can’t let go of. I’ve got a Vanagon with a dead engine and a hot tub that cost me a piece of my future. I’ve got a business that was once promising and now feels like a missed call I never returned. I’ve got friends I co-own things with but rarely see. I’ve got a mom who helped me, and now resents me for it. I’ve got a dad who avoids conflict so well, I might as well be a spreadsheet line he refuses to click. I’ve got a brain full of good ideas and no runway. I’ve got a body that’s tired in ways I don’t fully understand.

And I’m supposed to make a plan. Pick a path. Pitch a service. Sell a thing. Get a job. Apply to school. Post a reel. File a form. Move forward. Smile politely when asked, “So what do you do?”

But what if I don’t know what I do anymore? What if all I know is how it feels to wake up smart, and fall asleep wondering if I imagined it?

I know I’ll get through this. I always do. But right now I don’t want solutions. I just want to be seen, even if it’s through the screen of a blog no one reads. Even if it’s just me seeing me for once.

I’m not asking for help. I’m asking for space. To be this version of me…unimpressive, unsure, unsteady. And still worth something.