Hitting rock bottom doesn’t always happen with a crash; sometimes, it is a slow, suffocating descent into silence. At thirty-four weeks pregnant and completely alone after my partner walked out, I was drowning. My kitchen counter was buried under a silent avalanche of overdue bills, and the weight of the world felt like it was physically crushing me. Then came the phone call that finally broke the dam. The bank was initiating foreclosure proceedings immediately. I sat in my quiet house, hand pressed to my belly, whispering apologies to a baby I wasn’t sure I could protect. I needed air, so I stepped out into the oppressive, sticky heat of a brutal Tuesday afternoon.
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