Yesterday was one of those days that tested my patience and reminded me of just how alone I’ve become. I found myself at work, in the middle of clearing out a bunch of old fencing—a job that was nothing short of exhausting. With each truckload, I felt the fatigue setting in, but the satisfaction of nearing the end pushed me forward. By the sixth and final load, the finish line was in sight. I walked up to my truck, sweat trickling down my brow, only to discover that I had locked myself out.
There I stood, tools scattered around me, the remnants of the old fence leaning like sentinels against the fading sunlight, and my truck—my lifeline—was now an iron fortress with no key to its gates. For a moment, frustration bubbled up. I wanted to shout, to curse my luck, to be angry at anything but myself. But there was no one around to hear it, no sympathetic voice to offer help or reassurance. Just me and the stubborn silence.
I spent the next 40 minutes wrestling with a makeshift tool—a clothes hanger I had scavenged from the debris. The wire felt flimsy in my hand, bending and twisting with each failed attempt. My mind raced, shifting between problem-solving and the deeper thoughts I’ve tried so hard to avoid. Each failed attempt brought the realization home: there’s no safety net anymore, no one to call. Not Mom, not Dad, and certainly not Katarina. Those days are behind me, sealed away in a past that no amount of desperation can unlock.
It’s a sobering thought to recognize that you’re alone in a world that demands so much of you. No helping hand, no comforting words. Just the echo of your own resolve. But that’s when it hit me—this is life now. It’s raw, unyielding, and it’s mine to face. I could’ve given in and called a locksmith, sacrificing a day’s worth of wages and admitting defeat. But I knew that wasn’t the path I wanted to walk. I needed to prove to myself that I could handle it, that I could fight back against the setbacks that life throws my way.
As the minutes stretched on and the sun began to dip lower, I finally felt the satisfying click of the latch. The door swung open, and I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Relief washed over me, but so did the understanding that this was more than just unlocking a door. It was a reminder—a lesson carved out in that moment of struggle—that no one will ever have my back like I do. It’s just me, facing the world with nothing but my wits, my hands, and whatever makeshift tools I can find.
So, yes, it’s just me against the world now. But in those 40 minutes, with a clothes hanger and a stubborn heart, I learned that maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.