The Future Is Right There—But I Can’t Reach It Yet

I can see the future I want. It’s right there—across the river. I can picture it clearly: stability, purpose, contribution, peace. A life where I’m supported, seen, and creating freely without sacrificing my body or sanity to get there. But there’s no bridge. No boat. Just me, on the bank. And the water in between feels wide and cold and rising.

This week, that gap has felt unbearable.

The pain in my body is louder than usual. The pressure in my marriage is rising again, especially over how we raise our daughter. We’re wired differently, shaped by different worlds—me, a lifetime in education and trauma-informed work. Him, raised on fear-as-respect, with no real model for what it means to teach through connection rather than control.

I keep saying, “This isn’t working.” He hears it as a challenge instead of an invitation.And in the middle is our daughter—misunderstood, overwhelmed, trying to self-protect while we argue about who’s helping and who’s harming. I’m tired of yelling. I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of the way every conversation ends in exhaustion and disconnection.

And then there’s the money. We’re not okay. Not really. I’m working so hard—mentally, emotionally, physically—to rebuild my life, my health, and my business… and yet we’re scraping by. I hear my husband say, “You always have a plan, but something always comes up,” and I can’t tell if it’s resignation or a quiet loss of faith in me. Maybe both.

I’m trying. But trying doesn’t pay the bills.

I’m constantly calculating what we need and what I can go without. I forget to eat. I skip my supplements. I push to do more so my family can have what they need. Meanwhile, my studio is full of unfinished projects. My website sits half-built. My daughter and I share a crowded nighttime space, so even my sacred quiet hours are gone. There’s nowhere to sit that doesn’t hurt. Nowhere to think that feels private. Nowhere to rest without guilt.

And yet—every day—I get up, and I try again.

It’s because of that vision on the other side of the river. I still want it. I still believe in it. I still see myself living it, even if I don’t know how I’m going to get there yet.

This isn’t a story about giving up.This is a story about the ache of continuing. It’s about standing at the edge of something beautiful and not knowing how to reach it—but refusing to stop showing up for it anyway.

And if you’ve ever felt that way too—like the future you’ve worked for is just out of reach, and the boat to get there is missing—I want you to know you’re not alone.

We are not alone.