For almost a year, I lived in a strange in-between space.
The conversations had happened. The numbers had been reviewed. The approvals came in stages—each one giving me permission to hope a little more. I didn’t celebrate loudly, but in my head, life had already started rearranging itself.
That Maldives for my LANDO & LION.
A car upgrade I had planned carefully, responsibly.
My own elegant and spacious house facing the beach under 30.
A small business for my elder sister who in pursuit of love 
had to drop out of school years ago—something dignified, something hers.
Support for children who needed just a little push.
Even a version of myself I was quietly becoming—healthier, more confident, finally breathing.
None of it felt reckless. It felt earned.
Then, in less than a month, it all collapsed.
No long explanation. No room for discussion. Just a sudden reversal that made the last year feel like a mirage I had imagined. The plans disappeared one by one, like dominos falling in silence.
The hardest part wasn’t losing things.
It was losing momentum.
All the great changes I had designed for implementation gone. Deadlines don’t scare me anymore. I sit in meetings now—listening, nodding, taking notes—while something inside me stays detached. I watch decisions being made by people old enough to be my grandparents, people whose single benefit could cover what I earn in years. People who will never feel this kind of loss because their safety nets are permanent.
I try not to call it bitterness. But it’s hard not to notice how ego and quiet jealousy can weigh more than performance, consistency, or effort.
What surprised me most is how the disappointment didn’t explode. It just settled. Heavy. Still. Like a room where the air no longer moves.
I didn’t spiral. I didn’t quit.
I just… paused.
If you’re in that place where your future was clear yesterday and blurry today, I see you. When something you’ve already emotionally lived through is taken away, the grief is real—even if no one else understands it.
I’m still here. Still showing up. Still doing the work.
But I’m learning that sometimes the deepest burnout doesn’t come from exhaustion.
It comes from hope that had already started unpacking its bags.