She was also the type of woman who was slowly killing herself to maintain a life that wasn't even her own.
I worked as a senior manager at a marketing agency in Washington, DC. Good salary. Terrible habits. No rest. And an almost shameful obsession with a single goal: to buy my own house.
Something small. Even ugly. Even far away. Even if I had to manage on my own afterwards.
Something that was mine.
Something that no one could take away from me or turn into a "family obligation".
I rented a one-bedroom apartment that always felt temporary. It wasn't bad, but it lacked character. The walls were worn. The kitchen was cramped. The bathroom had a leak that sometimes left a faint musty smell in the mornings.
And yet, in that small, ordinary space, I felt more peace than I ever had in my childhood.
Every month, when I paid the rent, something twisted inside me. Not just frustration, something deeper. Anxiety. Urgency. As if time were charging me interest. As if every dollar I handed over was proof that I was stuck while everyone else was moving forward.
So I pushed myself even harder. More work. More hours. More meetings. More coffee. More nights answering emails at two in the morning with the laptop screen illuminating my face.
Sleeping became a luxury. Eating, something secondary.
Four hours a night. Reheated coffee. Half-eaten sandwiches. Forgotten yogurt cups.
My body had been screaming at me for months to stop.
I would tell him, "Later."
That "later" caught up with me on a random Tuesday.
At ten o'clock in the morning, I was checking figures when it hit me.
It wasn't the typical chest pain you see in awareness ads.
I felt as if a fist had crushed my heart from the inside. Pain shot up my left arm. I couldn't breathe.
Everything around me kept moving —normal, absurdly normal— while I remained paralyzed.
I saw my reflection in the glass wall of a conference room.
Pale. Colorless lips. Eyes too wide open.
I've always been one of those people who downplay things. One of those who just keep going. One of those who say, "It'll pass."
This was not the case.
I looked at one of my coworkers and managed to say:
"Call 911."
Then everything went black.
When I woke up, there were machines. Beeping sounds. Cold lights. The smell of antiseptic burned my nose.
A doctor was standing next to my bed.
"I'm glad to see you awake," he said. "I'm Dr. Chen. You've been here for two days."
My voice came out broken.
"Everything hurts."
He pulled a chair closer.
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