Beneath the quiet of another working day, I feel that old pulse of exhaustion pressing behind my ribs. It is not a scream, not even a cry, just that familiar tremor of surviving on the edge of something that never quite changes. People call it being functional, but that word sounds almost mocking. It hides the reality of counting coins for soap, of stretching a paycheck like thin fabric over a wound. I wake up early, work, return, repeat, and somehow the cycle still feels like failure disguised as perseverance. There was a time I thought persistence was noble, but now it feels like a polite version of despair.
Crossing the threshold between hope and resignation is subtle. You never notice the moment it happens. You just realize one day that the world looks smaller, that even joy feels borrowed. I used to believe that prosperity was a matter of faith, of effort, of staying kind despite the chaos. Now I see that it is also about structure, about luck, about being allowed to rest. The idea that one must always struggle to deserve calm is a cruel myth dressed as wisdom. When you live in constant scarcity, peace becomes an unattainable luxury. I am tired of calling that resilience.
During the nights when anxiety knocks too early, I stare at the ceiling and think about the absurdity of it all. I am not chasing fame or applause. I just want to breathe without counting the cost. I want to buy a small gift for the man I love without it turning into a financial strategy. People who claim that material things are irrelevant have clearly never had to explain to themselves why survival costs so much dignity. It is not about vanity. It is about feeling human in a world that keeps demanding proof of worth through endurance. The thought of love should bring ease, not guilt over what you cannot afford to give.
Even here, in Hive, I find a strange relief. Wednesday Walk becomes my confessional, a way of stepping outside the endless noise. I write, not to inspire, but to let the ache breathe. This platform has become a quiet mirror, one that reflects not beauty but honesty. Through my photos I show the ruins near my home, once radiant, now hollowed by neglect. They are my metaphor, my small rebellion against silence. There are days when I think words are pointless, that no one needs another lament. Yet here I am, pressing publish, not to seek validation but to refuse invisibility. Sometimes that is all we can do.
Falling apart in public is still a form of courage. I am learning that expressing exhaustion does not make it smaller, but at least it makes it real. There is no moral hidden between these lines, no tidy conclusion to offer. This is just a woman acknowledging the weight of living, without filters or faith in sudden redemption. Maybe tomorrow I will find a softer thought to hold onto, or maybe I will wake again to the same relentless uncertainty. But tonight, I am choosing to name the truth as it is. There is no peace in precariousness, and no shame in saying so.
