As my birthday approaches tomorrow, I’m staring at my bank app, fully aware that in just a few hours, my balance will be wiped out by rent, bills, and debts. I’ve already come to terms with the fact that my money will vanish quickly, yet I can’t help but gaze at the screen for hours, almost in disbelief. I keep refreshing the app, as if some miracle deposit might appear, but deep down, I know it’s futile. The money’s gone before it even settles, swallowed by obligations that don’t care about birthdays or dreams.
I know I’m not the only one grappling with this. So many people are struggling financially right now, just like me. Still, we have no choice but to keep going, pushing forward even when it feels like we’re dragging our feet through the mud. Some days, it’s sheer stubbornness that keeps me upright—other days, it’s the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be different.
With my birthday just a day away, I can’t help but think about how the last few haven’t been all that great either. I remember one from years ago, back when I had a steady job and a little extra in the bank. I threw a small party—nothing fancy, just pizza, salad, family and a few friends laughing around a table. It felt light, carefree, like the world was on my side. Now, the idea of celebrating feels absurd, almost mocking. Despite that, I’m thankful to still be here, still alive and fighting. As Mordecai once said, “Who knows?” Maybe this birthday will mark a turning point, a shift in the tide. Or maybe it’s just another chapter in this ongoing struggle, another page in a book I didn’t sign up to write. Either way, I’m still turning the pages.
Today, my wife called me, her voice shaky, saying her scholarship’s on the line. I met my wife years ago at a funeral for my friend’s dad who had passed away. It was a heavy day, the kind where the air feels thick with sorrow and every word spoken carries extra weight. I remember standing there, lost in the quiet chaos of mourning, when I saw her sitting in a corner with her friends. She wasn’t part of the usual crowd, yet she didn’t feel out of place either. We started talking, and something strange happened—I felt like I’d known her for years. It was so comfortable, so effortless, as if we were picking up a conversation that had been paused long ago. I don’t know why it felt that way, even to this day. It’s like a puzzle I still haven’t solved, a mystery that lingers in the back of my mind. Maybe that’s what true love is—a question you don’t need to answer, a feeling that just is.
The Bible says love is patient, and maybe back then, I was lovable. I was younger, less worn down, with dreams still intact and a lighter heart. Now, after years of crushing those dreams—ours, hers, mine—I feel like a shadow of that person. Life has a way of grinding you down, doesn’t it? Financial struggles have battered us relentlessly, leaving us knee-deep in debt more times than I care to count. Yet her patience remains, steady and unshaken. The love is still there, fierce and quiet all at once. I’ve come to understand why the Bible describes love this way: it transcends everything the eyes can see, leaps over the chaos of unpaid bills and broken plans, and is tested by fire—over and over again. She’s been my angel through it all, pulling us through when I couldn’t see a way out, somehow managing to keep our heads above water even when the current was pulling us under.
So now, with her scholarship hanging by a thread because we’re barely scraping by to cover her tuition, it cuts deeper than ever. Her call, her voice trembling, laid it all bare. Hearing her try to hold it together broke something in me. It’s not just about the money—though that’s a beast of its own—it’s about her dreams, the ones we promised to chase together. I feel like I’ve let her down in the worst way, like I’ve taken that spark we found at the funeral and let it dim under the weight of my failures. She’s carried us through so much, and now this? It’s a guilt that gnaws at me, a fear that the love and patience she’s shown might finally hit a wall—not because she’d leave, but because I don’t know how to forgive myself for dragging us here.
Now this is the kind of nightmare that claws at me, one I fight to stay awake against because falling asleep feels like letting it win. But even with this weight, I’m pushing forward—learning, grinding away at my business. I’ve told myself a hundred times: this cannot fail, this cannot fail, this cannot fail. It’s a mantra I cling to, a lifeline in the dark.
And it’s true—this endeavor cannot fail. I’ve got to make it work. I have to. So, I’m grabbing every lifeline I can to keep going, to hold on. This affiliate link for DreamHost? It means the world to me. It’s not just a random URL—it’s a piece of hope, a chance to turn this blog into something more than a diary of despair. I’ve been staying up late, bleary-eyed, reading about affiliate marketing, watching tutorials, trying to figure out how to make this work. It’s slow, and I’m no expert, but it’s a start. I’ve even thought about tweaking my blog title to something like “This Affiliate Link for DreamHost Means the World to Me,” but I’ll stick with the original. If you or someone you know needs a reliable web host, I’d be beyond grateful if you used my link. It’s a small thing that could keep us afloat a little longer. And if you’re already set with another host, I’m honestly happy for you and your success—truly. After all, who lifts a person up if not their fellow humans? Thank you for your kindness and your helping spirit, even if it’s just reading this far.
Laying all this out feels raw, like I’m standing in front of a crowd with no armor. But maybe that’s the point—maybe someone out there needs to hear they’re not alone in their own mess. So, if you’re staring at your own bank app tonight, wondering how you’ll make it through, know I’m right there with you. And if you’d like to toss me a birthday gift that doesn’t cost a dime but could change everything, consider using that DreamHost link. It’d be the best present I could ask for—a little light in this storm.
M.G.Fossing