It has been three months since I lost my job. Two days since I last changed out of my pyjamas. And weeks since I gathered the energy to step outside.
But beyond all of that, there’s the constant, nerve-wracking anxiety—about everything.
 |
| For illustration purposes | Source: Pexels.com |
I suspect, at this point, my husband wants to divorce me.
And honestly? I can’t even blame him. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to stay either. But that thought only makes my chest tighten even more, because no matter how much I prepare myself for it, I know I’m not ready to lose him.
I hear him before I see him: the heavy sigh, the slow footsteps as he enters the living room. I don’t look up. I can’t. I already know what’s coming.
He stands there for a moment, watching me, and then, finally—
Husband: “I can’t do this anymore.”
 |
| For illustration purposes | Source: Pexels.com |
The words send a jolt through me, but I don’t react. I knew this was coming.
Wife: “Do what?”
Husband: “Be your caretaker 24/7.”
I flinch but keep my voice steady.
Wife: “You’re not my caretaker. You’re my husband.”
Husband: “And what does that even mean anymore? Because lately, all I do is take care of you.”
He gestures toward me, toward my unwashed hair, my oversized pyjama top hanging off my shoulder.
Husband: “Look at you. You’ve been wearing that for days. Have you even left this apartment? Have you even tried?”
Shame burns my skin.
Wife: “I just… haven’t had the energy.”
Husband: “You never have the energy!”
His voice cracks, frustration boiling over.
Husband: “I come home from work to find you exactly where I left you. Sitting. Scrolling. Thinking about doing things but never actually doing them. And meanwhile? I’m covering everything.”
[I look away, but he doesn’t stop].
Husband: “The rent? Me. The groceries? Me. The bills? The car payment? The internet you spend all day on? Me.”
His voice rises with every word.
Husband: “You drained our savings. Do you even realize that? Do you even care?”
My chest tightens.
Wife: “I didn’t mean to—“
Husband: “But you did! I begged you to at least try to get another job, but you shut down every time I bring it up. We cannot afford this. I cannot afford this.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
Wife: “I’m trying. You know I am.”
 |
| For illustration purposes | Source: Pexels.com |
Husband: “No, you’re not! Trying would mean looking for work, putting in applications. Trying would mean showering, leaving the house, showing up for life! But instead, you just sit here, waiting for me to fix everything.”
Wife: “I thought you understood.”
Husband: “I did. But understanding doesn’t pay the bills. And it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I’m married to a ghost.”
Wife: “So what? You’re leaving?”
Husband: “I have to. I can’t keep setting myself on fire to keep you warm.”
I shake my head. No. No, no, no.
Wife: “You promised. In sickness and in health.”
Husband: “But what if your sickness is destroying me? I wake up every morning with a pit in my stomach because I know I have to face another day of carrying everything. The bills. The house. You.”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
Husband: “I have nothing left for myself. My job drains me, and then I come home to—this.”
He gestures around the room. I follow his eyes—the pile of unopened mail on the table, the dishes in the sink, the laundry basket still full from last week.
Husband: “I used to love coming home. Now, I sit in the car for ten extra minutes just to breathe before walking through that door.”
 |
| For illustration purposes | Source: Pexels.com |
My chest tightens.
Wife: “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
Husband: “How could you not?”
He shakes his head, his voice rising again.
Husband: “I’ve been trying to hold this together for months, but it’s like I’m screaming into a void. I work overtime to keep us afloat, and you—“
Husband: “I feel like a single parent to someone who refuses to grow up.”
I flinch.
Husband: “And God, I miss us. I miss you. I miss the woman I married. But I can’t keep waiting for her to come back.”
I open my mouth, desperate to say something to make this better, to make him stay. But what do I say? That I’ll try harder? That I’ll change?
I don’t even know if I believe that anymore.
And neither does he.
The door slams.
 |
| For illustration purposes | Source: Pexels.com |
I flinch, but I don’t move. I sit there, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
Wife: “He’s really gone…”
I grab my phone and scroll through Facebook, trying to distract myself. But all I see are happy couples, perfect vacations, lives that aren’t falling apart.
Wife: “Why can’t I be like them?”
I pause when I see a post in an anxiety support group. It’s from a friend I haven’t spoken to in months. She’s always been open about her struggles with anxiety, but today, she’s smiling in a photo, talking about how she’s been using something called Quabble.
Friend’s Post: “I’ve been using Quabble for a few weeks. It’s really helped me take control of my anxiety.”
Wife: “Quabble?”
I blink at the screen. It’s just another app, isn’t it? Another “fix your anxiety in three easy steps” gimmick? Another thing that won’t work?
I should just keep scrolling. But I don’t.
Instead, I tap.
I swallow hard. I’ve been in therapy for years. Years of breathing exercises, of grounding techniques, of trying to convince myself that my fears aren’t real. But no matter how hard I try, my anxiety always wins.
Nothing ever works.
Wife: “Maybe this won’t either. But what do I have to lose? I need to get out of this house. I need to start applying for jobs again, find some sense of purpose. I need to take control of my life—not just for him, but for me.”
I press download. Because I can’t keep living like this.
A small duck appears on the screen. I don’t know why, but something about it makes me feel less alone.
The Worry Box is the first thing that catches my attention. It asks me to write down what’s on my mind. No pressure to fix anything. Just put the thoughts somewhere.
I hesitate, then type:
"I think my husband is going to leave me."
"I feel like a burden."
"I don’t know if I can change."
I hit Done, the app folds my worries and tucks them into a box. I exhale slowly. Maybe I can set them down for a little while.
I scroll through the app and see Gratitude Jar. The prompt asks me to write down one thing I’m grateful for.
I almost closed it. My life is a mess—what is there to be grateful for? But then I think…
"He hasn’t left yet."
It’s a small thing. But it’s something.
Then I see something called Proud Dandelion. It asks, What’s one thing you did today that you’re proud of?
I almost laughed. Nothing. I haven’t changed my pyjamas. I haven’t applied for jobs. I haven’t cleaned. I haven’t even eaten.
But… I downloaded this app. I opened it. I wrote down my thoughts instead of drowning in them.
So I type, "I reached out for help."
A tiny dandelion appears on the screen, its leaves stretching just a little toward the sun.
I stare at it.
It’s growing.
I try Pleasant Activities, listing down simple ideas. Make tea. Listen to music. Step outside for fresh air. I set a goal: just one thing today. I bite my lip and tap Make tea. It’s small, but it feels manageable. I made a promise to myself—just one thing today. That’s all.
I scroll through the app and stop at the Outdoor Walk Timer.
My husband has been asking me to go outside for weeks. “Just for a few minutes,” he’d say. “Fresh air will help.” But every time, I stayed inside, too drained to move.
But now…I tap the feature. A little duck appears, walking in place, as if it’s waiting for me.
I take a deep breath and stand up.
The duck starts walking.
I take a step outside. Then another. The ground is solid under my feet. The wind moves through the trees. A bird chirps.
I glance at the timer. One minute.
I can do one minute.
When I step back inside, the duck stops walking too.
I stare at the screen, my throat tight. It’s just an app. Just a little duck. But right now, I don’t feel so alone.
For three weeks, I kept using Quabble. I would start every morning with the Worry Box, putting my fears into words instead of letting them spiral. Something about seeing them written down makes them feel less powerful. Less like absolute truths, and more like just… thoughts.
When my mind whispers, "You’re failing. You’ll never change." I type it out and tuck it away. Then I open the Proud Dandelion and remind myself of what I have done. "I cleaned the kitchen." "I sent a job application." "I got out of bed even when I didn’t want to."
The dandelion grows a little taller.
My husband notices the changes before I do.
 |
| For illustration purposes | Source: Pexels.com |
"You’re going outside more," he says one evening.
I nod. "Yeah… I guess I am."
A month ago, I wouldn’t have believed I could do this. My thoughts used to trap me—You’re stuck. You’re a burden. You’ll never be better. But now, when those thoughts come, I have something to counter them.
I remind myself what I wrote in the Gratitude Jar. "My husband made me laugh today." "I felt fresh air on my skin."
I practice 5-4-3-2-1 grounding when my anxiety builds. I touch the fabric of my clothes, listen to the hum of the fridge, remind myself I am here.
And one night, as I sit next to my husband, I don’t feel like a stranger in my own marriage.
"You seem… lighter," he says, searching my face.
I exhale. "I feel lighter."
I won’t pretend I’m suddenly free of anxiety. It’s still there, but it’s not running my life anymore. I have tools now. Steps I can take.
I glance at my phone. My little dandelion is strong and tall.
I smile.
So am I.
Change doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in small steps—standing up when you don’t want to, stepping outside even when it feels impossible, writing down your worries instead of letting them take over.
Progress isn’t about waking up one day and feeling fixed. It’s about choosing, every day, to try again.
Healing doesn’t have to be grand. It can be as simple as a minute-long walk, a single job application, or even just getting out of bed.
Small steps may not seem like much, but over time, they build something bigger—hope, growth, and the belief that you are not as stuck as you think.
Disclaimer: This story reflects one perspective and is shared to spark discussion and connection. While inspired by real situations, some details may have been altered for privacy and clarity.
Thanks for reading. Find more family drama and other relatable stories—only at NostalgicGrandma. These stories exist to make you feel seen and remind you that you’re not alone.