Lately, I’ve been feeling down. Not in the dramatic, falling-apart kind of way, but in a quieter, more persistent sense. A weight I can’t seem to shake. I’ve tried sitting with it, asking myself where it’s coming from, hoping that if I could name the source, I might fix it, heal it, move forward.

Each time I sit down to unpack it, I arrive at the same answer: my life circumstances.

It’s not a specific event or one bad day; it’s the reality I’m living. One I thought I had accepted. I believed I had made peace with the cards I’ve been dealt. But I’ve realized that acceptance doesn’t guarantee peace, and it certainly doesn’t mean you’ll always feel okay about it.

For a while, I started hating myself for what I saw as self-pity. I told myself I was being selfish for feeling sad about something inevitable. But I was wrong.

It is okay to be upset that my father is dying of a terminal illness and I have to watch from afar. It is okay to feel heartbroken that my brother is carrying the burden of caregiving, of tending to our childhood pets, of being the one there every day while I’m not. I live far away because of my job, a job I enjoy in a place I love. I wrestle with guilt over that too.

Could I find a job closer to home? Probably. But it would mean making less money and not being able to support the people who depend on me: my sister, who’s in college without any parental support, my cousins, who were orphaned in December, and my father, who needs extra financial help for his care. I could say no to sending money, but how do you turn away when someone you love needs you?

These thoughts hit me hard this morning during a simple act: walking a dog. I had volunteered to take her out of the shelter for the day, to give her a break from the kennels and help her be seen by potential adopters. As I sat on a park bench, I watched people pass by — families laughing together, couples carrying shopping bags from a spa day, others just moving with a lightness I envied.

For a moment, I wanted that life. A life where I could be carefree, spend money on myself, not feel the tug of responsibility all the time. And then I remembered, I’m not being robbed of that life. I’ve chosen to wait for it.

Because right now, there are people in my life who need help more than I need new clothes or a relaxing day off.

I’m not writing this for pity. I’m not trying to be a martyr or a hero. I’m writing it because these feelings need somewhere to go.

I’ve come to understand that my current situation; being 26 and helping keep the lights on for orphaned cousins, supporting a college-aged sister, and sending money to a father who sometimes forgets who I am,  is not normal. It’s not typical. But it is my reality.

And despite everything, I’m proud of myself.

Sitting With What Is

There is a quiet kind of strength in carrying burdens you never expected to shoulder, especially when you carry them without bitterness. It’s easy to compare our lives to others and feel behind, overlooked, or exhausted. But comparison never tells the full story. What’s visible from the outside rarely reflects the complexity of someone’s heart.

What I’ve learned, and am still learning, is that grief and gratitude can coexist. I can love my life and still long for more ease. I can be proud of my resilience and still wish I didn’t have to be so strong. I can give generously and still feel the sting of sacrifice.

It’s all true. All of it is valid.

And maybe the real growth is not in fixing how I feel, but in letting it be. Letting it speak. Letting it breathe.

Because sometimes, just surviving with grace is its own kind of victory.