Member-only story
I Thought I Knew Struggle — then I got Divorced
Transparent Admissions from a Life Coach
You know it hard out here for a pimp
When he tryin’ to get this money for the rent
Song by Three 6 Mafia
“Do a lot check,” my 23-year-old shift manager said.
The fast-food restaurant was filled with the sensory overlay of early morning activity: beeps from the timers, the aroma of freshly made coffee, the constant underlying stench of drains, the specifically depressing musical choices of this manager.
I gathered the broom and dustpan and went outside to clean our parking lot and drive-through. I collected coins from the ground outside the drive-through window. I would wash and sanitize them later.
I was sweeping cigarettes and other trash outside the restaurant, sweating on a hot summer day in my hairnet, hat, and earphones.
I thought of my college years.
How would my fellow students see me now? I was a leader back then. I participated in everything and went hard at it. Now I was arguably at the bottom of the economic ladder.
I still go hard at it. But now I’m making barely enough, and the rent is a constant menace, and my kid got let go from her second job in 6 months, and my car has been in the shop quite a lot this month.
Even the loaner vehicle from a kind friend has the check engine light on.
I thought I would be able to replace my ex fairly soon after we split. He had already replaced me.
But no.
I haven’t wanted to write much about my awkward failed attempts at dating, my stupid and ill-fated crushes (limerence) on not one, but two different bartenders, the way-too-much money I’ve spent on getting training and coaching for myself that did not result in more clients, and the unbelievable side quests that I can’t talk about yet. Tragedy compounded by overwhelm, grief, anger, and injustice.
Ironically, the last coach I tried, who low-key annoyed me, gave me the simplest, most practical advice: Make sure you have a job and don’t depend on getting coaching clients yet.
Any job.
