Hi. It’s Tina. And yes—before anyone asks—I know I should be sleeping right now. Like, a normal person should be asleep, phone face-down, body heavy with that “everything is fine” feeling.
But no. Here I am at 9:20 PM, still wired. Still replaying the day like it’s a highlight reel of bad decisions, bad timing, and bad luck—except the “highlights” are mostly me getting grilled at work, feeling like I need to defend my existence, and then breaking down in tears in my own driveway like I just got dumped by a toaster.
Usually, I can come on here, make a joke, throw in a little sarcasm, tell you how somebody irritated my soul before 9:00 in the morning, and somehow turn whatever mess I’m dealing with into something we can all laugh about. But today? Baby, the humor department is understaffed. The sarcasm manager called out. My last nerve submitted a two-week notice without consulting me.
Emotionally, I feel like I have been dragged behind a moving vehicle all day while somebody periodically leaned out the window to ask, “But have you thought about what you did?”
YES. I HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT I DID. THANK YOU. At this point, I have thought about it in regular font, bold font, italics, Times New Roman, Arial, and probably Wingdings.
Let me explain (as much as I legally can) so I can get this out of my head before I swallow so much stress it turns into a scientific anomaly in my bloodstream.
I got into a massive problem at work today. The kind of problem I literally cannot talk about in detail because there is an investigation pending and everything is in limbo. I could say one wrong thing and accidentally create a whole new problem on top of the original one. And honestly? I’ve already done enough damage for one lifetime.
I did something stupid.
Not an “Oops, I forgot my lunch in the refrigerator” mistake. Not an “I sent the email without the attachment” mistake. This was the kind of mistake where I literally had the right information, my intuition told me better, and I still chose to ignore it and do it anyway. Which is, in my opinion, the absolute worst kind of stupid.
There is no dramatic villain I can blame. I cannot blame Mercury retrograde, the economy, or daylight saving time. I screwed up.
So now, I am stuck in this agonizing holding pattern. I was told I have to wait 3 to 4 weeks to find out if I get to keep my job or if I’m getting fired. Do you know how long three or four weeks feels when somebody is holding your livelihood over a trap door? That is not three to four weeks. That is approximately 743 emotional years. Three to four weeks is enough time to:
Reorganize your entire house.
Overthink one conversation approximately 4,000 times.
Search “what happens if you lose your job?” at two in the morning.
Imagine every possible outcome, including the ones that make absolutely zero sense.
Every time my phone rings, I’m going to jump. Every time an email pops up, my stomach is going to fall into my shoes. Please communicate with me exclusively through carrier pigeon until further notice.
To make matters worse, my morning started with a grueling meeting involving the big wigs from regional. I was attacked—emotionally attacked—and grilled from left to right. It wasn’t one question. It was a waterfall of “explain this, justify that, what were you thinking?” And the part that makes me furious is that I sat there, owning my truth and taking full accountability for my monumental screw-up, and yet, it was heavily insinuated that I was lying.
There is nothing quite as maddening as telling the complete truth about a mistake you’re already kicking yourself for, only to have a room full of people look at you like you’re spinning a fairy tale.
I wasn’t trying to dodge accountability. I was owning my truth. But owning your truth in a room like that doesn’t feel empowering; it feels like you’re being asked to prove your innocence with no room for your humanity.
Now, my husband and I both work in healthcare. Usually, this is a blessing. We get the jargon, we understand the burnout. He always has my back, and I know he will always defend me. But this particular situation? Because of the healthcare overlap, he knows enough to ask questions.
So, instead of coming home, removing my bra and my emotional responsibilities, and letting my nervous system unclench with a glass of wine, I walked straight out of Interview Room A at work and into Interview Room B at home.
My husband essentially became the Regional Director, HR, Legal Counsel, FBI Special Agent, and Judge Judy all at the same time. Sir. Please clock out. I am begging you.
He kept questioning me: Why did you do this? What happened here? What were you thinking? Didn’t you know?
I know he is scared too. If I lose my job, that affects our household, our finances, and our plans. But there comes a point where questioning stops being productive and starts feeling like punishment. I spent hours defending myself against regional managers, only to clock out, walk through my front door, and get cross-examined by my own spouse until 9:20 at night.
I kept thinking: How many different ways can you ask me the same question before one of us starts speaking Latin?
Nobody is more aware of the mistake than the person whose entire career is currently hanging in uncertainty because of it. I don’t need somebody standing beside me yelling, “THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!” Baby, I am inside the house. I see the flames. Sometimes, when a person is already drowning, you don’t stand on the dock explaining all the swimming techniques they should have used before they fell in. First, you help them breathe.
If I’m being completely honest, the reason this work drama and the marital bickering feel so heavy is because my emotional tank has been running on empty for a very long time.
What people don’t always see is that the thing that finally makes you break down isn’t actually the biggest thing happening in your life. It’s just the final thing. Because while all of this work chaos is happening, I am carrying a grief that feels impossible to put into words.
I am navigating the silent, brutal trenches of IVF.
I am dealing with the constant, devastating heartbreak of losing a child and having transfers not fully go through time and time again. There is a specific type of exhaustion that comes with wanting a child so desperately, and feeling like your own body keeps making you audition for motherhood without ever giving you the role.
Infertility has a way of turning time into a measuring device:
You measure days.
You measure hormones and follicles.
You measure hope.
You measure loss.
I am doing every single thing right. I’m following every protocol, trying everything humanly possible, looking at pregnancy tests under bathroom lights like I’m conducting forensic analysis—and yet, it’s just not happening for me. It is a profound, unique kind of pain to realize that despite how hard you fight, you might just have to accept the fate that no matter how many IVF treatments you endure, you may never be able to carry a child.
So when you are carrying that kind of physical, mental, and emotional trauma, a mistake at work doesn’t just feel like a bump in the road. It feels like the entire road is collapsing underneath you.
My brain decided to write the worst possible ending to every storyline simultaneously today:
Job? Gone.
IVF? Never happening.
Marriage? Everybody irritated.
Mental health? Somewhere underneath the driver’s seat of my car.
Eventually, my emotional system said: Absolutely not. We are closed. Please come back during normal business hours.
I broke down. I sat in my car in the driveway and cried. And I don’t mean cute, single-tear movie crying. I mean UGLY crying. Shoulders shaking, can’t catch your breath, mascara applying for asylum, snot making an unexpected guest appearance. The type of cry where if somebody knocked on the window, you would seriously consider relocating to another state rather than making eye contact.
I cried about work. I cried because I was scared. I cried because I was ashamed of my stupid decision. I cried because my husband kept questioning me when I desperately just needed him to hug me. I cried because every unsuccessful IVF attempt leaves another tiny crack in me that I don’t know how to repair.
I cried because I am so tired of being strong.
And after crying in my car, I pulled myself together just enough to walk upstairs… and broke down all over again. Apparently, tonight’s program was a double feature.
I don’t have a motivational ending for you. I don’t have a beautiful quote about everything happening for a reason. Sometimes things happen because you made a mistake, and sometimes life is just unfair. Today, three completely separate emotional disasters decided to RSVP to the same Tuesday without an invitation.
But I am trying to remind myself that one horrible day does not get to decide the rest of my life.
One mistake doesn’t erase every good thing I have done professionally.
One investigation doesn’t dictate the final verdict.
One unsuccessful IVF journey doesn’t tell me with certainty what my future holds.
And one argument with my husband doesn’t erase the fact that we love each other deeply.
I am going to try to give myself some grace tonight. Not the Instagram version where you light a candle and your problems respectfully disappear. The ugly version. The version where I admit: I screwed up, I am terrified, I don’t have control, and I am still deserving of rest.
You do not have to earn rest by having a perfect life. You do not have to earn compassion by never making mistakes.
So tonight, I’m emotionally clocking out. The investigation will be there tomorrow. My fears will be waiting. IVF will still be part of my story. But tonight, I need somebody to tell the committee inside my head that today’s proceedings have officially adjourned.
If you are reading this and you’ve ever had one of those days where everything falls apart in layers—work stress, relationship stress, fertility stress, grief—you are not alone. You are not weak for breaking down. Sometimes your body doesn’t break because you can’t handle it; it breaks because you handled it for far longer than you should have.
I’m Tina. I’m scared. I’m exhausted. But I’m still here.
Now I’m going to do the one thing I should’ve done hours ago. I’m going to try to breathe like I’m not carrying the whole world in my chest.
Goodnight (hopefully)
Good night, Tina. I hope things turn around for you very soon.