I’m 43, and most mornings I’m clocking in at a small grocery store on Main before the sun even wakes up. It’s not the kind of job anyone brags about, but after everything my family has clawed our way through, I’ve learned to appreciate a word I used to overlook: stable.
Stable means the rent gets paid.
Stable means the fridge isn’t empty.
Stable means my daughter has a fighting chance at the future she dreams about.
I used to want more — the bigger life, the bigger house, the big everything. But life has a way of teaching you what actually matters. Now I just want enough. Enough breathing room, enough peace, enough days without something breaking or someone getting sick.
My husband, Dan, works maintenance at the community center. It’s not glamorous either — fixing clogged sinks, flickering lights, busted gym equipment. He comes home with shirts stained beyond saving and shoulders that need heat packs more than he’ll ever admit. But he works hard. He never complains. He understands survival the way I do: you keep going because stopping is not an option.
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