Want everything, need nothing.

At times, it absolutely felt like there was no hope. My life was paused while the world around me was thriving. That’s what I would call my dark days. When I would sympathize with suicide. When I would disassociate, panic. When I would stand in the shower for what felt like hours, numb. I heard someone say once, “Rain is nature’s way of cleansing the world.” I hoped the hot water of the shower would cleanse my soul. Of course, I would be crying, periodically looking up and pleading with God.

I knew better than to allow myself to go there, but some days I just couldn’t help it. As I towel-dried my hair, too depressed for anything else, the real thought of What if this really is my life now? would creep in. My brain would spiral, envisioning us moving into my mother-in-law’s tiny two-bedroom up in Marin. My famous director husband having to get a normal job while I worked at Starbucks just for the benefits, our kids stuck in a public school resembling a prison. I’d look in the mirror, catching a glimpse of my not-so-young-looking face—a face that has aged double since having kids. I would think about parents who’ve lost a child, a pain I don’t ever think I could live through. Then I’d feel almost spoiled and privileged to even be upset about money, which seemed trivial. How insensitive.

I would snap myself out of it, feeling my gut pulsate, signaling and reminding me that life would soon be amazing and this was just another life lesson, like the dozens before. I would try and believe it, except this time I had sold it all—purses, jewelry, clothes, that old PS4 that was lying around. I had been stripped down to nothing. I stood there completely naked and vulnerable. Is this what rock bottom feels like? Days blurred into weeks, then months. I would count the hours until I could go to bed and not have to live this nightmare. I was too sad to listen to music in the car; singing, smiling somehow felt wrong. How could I possibly smile at a time like this when I wasn’t sure how I would feed my children this month? Pasta again? I could hear them whining.

I dreaded the grocery store, having to tell the kids they couldn’t get those cookies or whatever it was they wanted. Having $30 and having to be strategic, calculating meals in my head, grateful for all that emergency food we piled up during 2020, though most of it was expired. “We’ll get you new shoes next month,” I would tell them. “I will sign you up for piano soon,” I would say, knowing that was a lie.

I still drove our BMW like everything was fine. I imagined the stranger who just saw me get out of it thinking how lucky I must be, how I must have it all. Little did they know I was four months behind on payments. I was almost ashamed and embarrassed to even drive it. If that homeless man only knew.

It was easier to not leave the house, half out of depression, half out of saving money. I would clean and organize constantly, almost at an unhealthy level, realizing it was the only thing in my life I had control over. We were so deep in the hole that it seemed impossible we would ever climb out. But then my husband would get a promising call and I would think, okay, this is it, but it only led to us getting our hopes up. This happened so many times that I eventually started rolling my eyes when he said he had good news.

But life went on, even if you didn’t pay your car this month, or you were late on the rent, etc. When I finally surrendered to that, I was more or less at peace. My perception was shifting. I started to understand why this was happening, but I still wished it would be over. You see, money doesn’t make you happy—what it does give you is freedom, and freedom is everything, especially when you’ve had a taste of it. I was starting to feel gratitude and appreciation toward things like I never had in my entire life. “Want everything, need nothing” had become my new motto.

I would think back to all the money I spent (more like wasted), mostly online, bored, trying to get my fix. I needed so many things—whether it was gut protocols, energy clearing, new tuning forks, new clothes, that new face cream. I constantly needed something. I was in denial. It consumed me in a way. It was like a wild animal I couldn’t get control over. When you lose everything, you get released from that demon. You are no longer a slave to it.

I repeated the word abundance incessantly. I could be in the shower or doing laundry, day after day, to the point where I was tired of hearing my own voice. The best was when I was alone in the car, driving through my boujee neighborhood, where I would shout it as loud as I could, hoping God or anyone else might hear me, while I drove past multimillion-dollar dream homes, imagining myself looking out the kitchen window, expensive white marble behind me, kids playing in the perfect backyard. It felt so real, my body would tingle for a brief second, and in that brief second I didn’t have to feel sad.

This went on for weeks and weeks. Manifest, pray, beg. Repeat. It had become a normal part of my day, like exercise or doing dishes. But it wasn’t working. IT WAS NOT WORKING. I would slip back into the depths of despair.

I just wanted someone to press fast forward. I didn’t care about the moments I would miss with the kids, the little things. I just wanted out of this time period. I should’ve been celebrating life; instead I was closing the curtains at five, signaling the day was done, eager to get into bed and reset.

One night after the kids went to bed, I went into my husband’s office, threw a blanket on the ground, and lay there while he worked. The tap of his fingertips as they hit the keyboard comforted me, reminding me I wasn’t alone. He took a break to chat. Our late-night meetups were quiet; we could actually have a serious conversation about our future, possible jobs that were on the line. Our talks always left me feeling better. On this particular night, there were no future jobs to talk about. The future looked bleak once again. There was nothing else to sell. We couldn’t ask his mother again.

There was nothing left to do except pray. We both lay on our backs on the blanket, hands interlocked, staring at the ceiling, searching for God. It was quiet, and there was a good chance He could hear us. We silently prayed together, something we had never done. Tears rolled down my face; I quietly wiped them away. I never asked, but I’m sure we prayed for the same thing. Life is unpredictable, and just like storms, the sky will eventually be blue again, and we will get back what we lost.