Too Tired to Dream, Too Broke to Quit...

I wrote this during a rough week—wasn’t sure if I’d post it, but I think it’s important to share how too real life feels sometimes. Maybe it’ll resonate with someone.

My job is starting to feel unreal—like something I neither have to do nor want to do. My goals are becoming more attainable, even if I’m still unsure how to reach them or make them real.

Most of the time, I feel like I’m sleepwalking through my day job. It’s mentally draining and suffocating.

I catch myself complaining more often and pushing aside the things that bring me joy, all because I have bills to pay. I keep putting pins in what genuinely interests me, hoping I’ll get to it later. But if not now, then when? When I’m too old and too tired to chase the things I want?

We live in a world where genuine contentment feels like either a distant dream or a quiet nightmare. A broken, corrupted system keeps feeding us lies about finding happiness in material things—and it’s nowhere near the truth.

I’ve come to realize that my peace lives in time spent with family and working on personal projects, not in slaving away from 8 to 4, five days a week.

This job drains the energy and liveliness out of me. It leaves me too exhausted to focus on anything beyond waking up the next morning just to repeat the same cycle.

It’s mentally and physically exhausting.

In school, they teach you to learn everything you can, pick a career, and build a stable life—because, of course, everyone has to work. Everyone needs to look put together, have a plan, be responsible, and secure a future. That’s what we’re taught. But no one tells you how fast that kind of thinking can swallow you whole and suffocate you.

I never believed in the education system. I never had a plan that felt like mine. I just went along with what others said I’d be good at.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” they’d ask. “A doctor? A lawyer?”

“A doctor,” I’d say. “Sure. I could be a doctor.”

But why? I hated hospitals—and I still do. As much as I wanted to help people, I couldn’t shake the fact that clinics and hospitals profit off people being sick more than actually curing and helping or promoting healthy living. Would I really be helping, or just keeping the machine running—one more gear in a system that doesn’t care if people heal?

So maybe not a doctor. Maybe IT. That sounded better. That sounded “realistic.”

And now here I am. Still doing something I don’t like. Still sleepwalking.

The thing I truly wanted, the one I buried so deep that I almost forgot about, was writing. I’ve wanted that since I was 10 years old. There’s chaos and beauty in words. I don’t remember exactly when I stopped believing it was possible for me, but I know now—I want it back.

Every weekday, it’s the same: wake up, shower, brush my teeth, catch the bus. The routine itself is exhausting, not because it’s hard, but because I already know where it leads. I know the destination, and I hate it. With writing, I never know where it’ll go—and that’s what makes it alive. It’s exciting, unpredictable. I don’t have to answer to anyone or explain why I’m not “on task.” I just write. And I feel free.

If money wasn’t an issue, I wouldn’t be working this job. I wouldn’t feel this level of exhaustion every single day. If my bills were covered, if money didn’t sit heavy on my chest every morning, I’d be somewhere else entirely. Somewhere lighter.

They tell us to be “responsible,” but somewhere along the line, that stopped including being kind to ourselves. We’re fed so many lies growing up: you need a career to matter; you need degrees to move forward.

Bullshit.

I’ve got the degrees. I've got the experience. I’ve done the “right” things. And here I am, still trying to breathe in a system that doesn’t care how tired we are—only that we keep clocking in.

The best things in life don’t show up after 20 years of non-stop grinding. They show up in quiet mornings, in time with family, in the rush of doing something that makes your soul sit up and pay attention.

For me, that thing is writing. Writing gives me life. When I write, the world fades away, and when I return, it feels new, safer, more beautiful. I come back to myself. Every time.

I’ve been told my dreams won’t take me far. But what does that even mean? I started writing 100-word flash fiction when I was a kid. Now I have more than 12 full-length unpublished manuscripts, each between 50,000 to 200,000 words. Don’t tell me I won’t get far—I’ve already come far. And I’m not done yet.

Burnout is not normal. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. And no matter how loudly media or workplaces try to normalize it, I refuse to accept that this is just “how it is.”

Success, to me, isn’t about a corner office or a big salary. It’s being able to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner without worrying if I’ll run out of groceries before the weekends. It’s owning my time. It’s writing without fear. It’s building something that lifts others up without locking them into the same cycle I’m trying to escape. It’s helping my family without drowning myself.

It’s teaching someone how to fish—not handing them a meal for the day but giving them the tools to feed themselves forever.

Would I still be doing what I'm doing now If time were running out? no—I wouldn’t still be here, pushing joy to the side like it’s some luxury I have to earn. I wouldn’t keep saying “maybe later” to the things that make me feel alive.

And that’s why I’ve started moving. Slowly. Quietly. But moving.

I don’t have it all figured out. But I’ve started. And sometimes, starting is everything.