I saw a friend this week who just bought a second vacation property. Not because they needed it. Because friends and family should have somewhere to stay.

A day later, another friend told me why she hasn't bought the house she wants yet. Not because she can't. Because bigger money is coming, just not yet. She said it the way you'd mention a delayed flight. An inconvenience. Not a fear.

I sat with both of those conversations and felt something I didn't love admitting. Envy. Disappointment. And underneath both, something closer to grief.

Because here is the difference I couldn't stop noticing. Their worst case has a floor under it. A property to sell. Money coming eventually. A delay, not a danger.

Mine doesn't.

And if I'm honest, some of what I feel isn't about them at all. It's about me.

By the time I told him I wanted out, most of my money was no longer mine to reach. It was in accounts I couldn't touch. That's when he started telling me I'd "end up living under a bridge."

That line comes back to me regularly. Not as a memory. More like a voice that still shows up, uninvited, on days like this one.

For a long time I told myself it was just something he said to keep me from leaving. And it was. But there's a part of it that's true, too, and that's the part that's harder to sit with. I'm not living under a bridge. But I don't have a retirement. I don't have the freedom to live the way I want. Some days, if I'm honest, I don't fully believe it will change.

So when that voice shows up, I'm left holding two things at once. He said it to control me, and he wasn't entirely wrong. Both of those can be true. That's an uncomfortable place to stand, but I don't think pretending otherwise helps me.

I don't write any of this for reassurance. I've had enough people tell me it'll be fine. I'm not asking you to talk me out of how I feel today.

I say it because I think a lot of us are carrying some version of this, quietly, while everyone around us seems to be choosing between good options, and we're just trying to keep choosing at all.

Gratitude and grief aren't opposites. They can sit in the same room. I can be thankful for what's holding me up and still ache over what's missing underneath it.

If you've felt that lately, about your own losses, or a voice of your own that keeps coming back, the specific version doesn't matter. I don't think the feeling is ugly. I think it's just grief, pointing at your own life and saying, I wanted this to look different by now.

You're allowed to feel it. You're allowed to not fix it today.

If any part of this is sitting with you, I'd love to hear it.

One more thing before I go. Letters like this one aren't easy to write, and they're not easy to send. If it landed for you and you want to help keep them coming, you can buy me a coffee here:

Jane (and Jaycee🐾)