Everyone talks about fresh starts like they’re a gift you just have to unwrap. Like if you’re sober, or trying to be, the door magically opens and all you have to do is walk through. Or recently divorced and have a new chance at life and love.

But what if you see the door and you don’t want to go in? What if you never wanted that fucking door in the first place? Or what if you want to, but you don’t believe your legs will carry you there?

I’m supposed to be grateful for another chance. I know that. I can list the reasons. I can say the right words. But inside, I feel heavy and tired and stuck in a life where nothing ever seems to work out for me.

I miss my kids in a way that sits in my chest and doesn’t move. Some days it feels like grief, some days like guilt, some days like a punishment I can’t escape. I carry it everywhere. It makes everything else harder.

I’m stressed. Overwhelmed. Alone.
Not the poetic kind of alone—the kind where you’re surrounded by advice and still feel completely unreachable.

Friends say, “No one can do it for you.”
And they’re right.
But here’s the part no one talks about: what if I can’t do it myself either?

If no one can do it for me, and I can’t do it on my own, where does that leave me?

Most days it leaves me wondering why I’m even here. Wondering what the point is of a fresh start is that I never fucking wanted. Wondering how many times a person can try and fail before they’re just… done.

I’m not writing this because I have answers. I’m writing it because pretending I do is exhausting. Because sobriety and healing isn’t always strength and clarity and gratitude—it’s sometimes just staying alive in a body that doesn’t want to be here.