Okay, it’s Monday. And that feeling is creeping in—lump in the throat, brain-wave noise that says: your anxiety is here, and she’d like to crank the volume to max.
Can someone give that bitch a chill pill? Anxiety is a liar with a megaphone. She thinks she’s protecting me, sure—but she’s about as helpful as a blind man looking for his glasses… while still wearing them. It’s just a spiral of a person chasing their own tail until they twirl into delirium. But honestly, if I could catch a breather, just for a sec, like unzip myself from this skin I’m in, hang it on a chair and just be like “be back never” that’d be great.
And today? I’m doing the thing again. Applying to more jobs. I’m trying to break into clinical specialist roles, and it feels like my nervous system takes that personally—like it’s offended I’m not staying put in a life that makes me miserable.
For a long time, I was obsessed with being a doctor. Maybe because I have very well-intentioned, slightly misguided parents who love the idea of being able to say, “My daughter became a doctor.” They’d deny it if you cornered them, but I’ve heard the way my dad says it—doc-tour—like he’s announcing Paul McCartney getting knighted.
But that’s not my path anymore. And also? I’m only 30. Eye roll. If you can get through your twenties without stapling your self-worth to one identity, you’ve already won. Go do what you’re good at, what the world needs, what pays you, what doesn’t make you gag on tomorrow during your drive home. Because if you’re already gargling the thought of the next day on the way back from work, honey… it ain’t worth it.
So here I am: laptop open, throat tight, trying to apply for jobs, trying to write as a creative outlet, trying to convince myself that creativity can’t breed in chaos (SOS), and trying not to solve my problems by ordering a pink wig off Amazon and becoming “Candy” after 6 p.m.
And the thing is—I’m not lazy. I’m not unserious. I have a master’s degree in physiology and I loved it. Graduated with nearly a 4.0. I earned that. It was such redemption from undergrad. Turns out, I didn’t give a shit in undergrad. It’s kinda hard to when your self-worth hinges on texts from fuck boys you meet at the clubs and then wonder like “how come boys don’t like me?” good golly, I’ve already told you guys that I’m a pretty tangential person, if you hang long enough, we’ll adventure down all these little adjacent threads. But anyways, my master’s degree. Fuck yeah. I had never worked for anything that hard in my life. I earned that. Work experience? Can you say a shit ton of veterinary stuff? Yeah, love animals. Was going to be a vet. Long story short, couldn’t financially justify applying to anywhere other than my in-state vet school. Didn’t get in 5 cycles in a row. Disheartening. But likely for the best. There’s so much outside your control in vet med. And it really is so sad. Like damnit linda just put your dog on the NSAID. He’s 14 and has arthritis, his freaking joints crack when he farts. TURMERIC WILL NOT BE SUFFICIENT. Lord those conversations bout sucked the life out of me. clinical experience? I gotchu. Research? It’s checked. Checked twice. Checked thrice because that OCD will never get me out of his sights. Freaking laser locked into dividing numbers by three for the rest of my life. Holy shit, different story for a different day. I’m not new to hard things.
So if you’re reading this and your chest is tight and your throat feels like it’s closing and your brain is inventing future catastrophes like it’s getting paid for it—hi. You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re not alone. You’re just a high-functioning person whose nervous system is doing the absolute most.
Take a breath in through your nose. Force your shoulders down. Touch something soft. Hold something real. Bite a chew toy if that’s what it takes. Take your dopamine pellets where you can find them.
And say it with me: I will not die—not now—and I’m not ordering that fucking pink wig yet.
