Track 17: My 2025 Wrapped

I did not start 2025 thinking I was about to lose my footing.

I started it trying to hold something sacred together.

From January through April, I was still at Equitas Health, serving as the Grant and Program Manager for the Quality Innovations Health Literacy Grant. On paper, my job was budgets, deliverables, and monthly documentation. In real life, my job was people. The grant centered on using technology, cell phones, and health literacy resources to help HIV+ Black and Brown men and Transfolx reach viral suppression. I helped enable our Health Literacy coaches to take a concierge approach with their clients, guiding them through systems that were never designed with them in mind and connecting them to resources inside and outside of Equitas.

What that work meant to me personally cannot be separated from my own story. It was the same kind of care others poured into me when I was first diagnosed in 2008, just with better technology, better medicine, and more access. I carried that responsibility with intention and pride.

As the grant period moved closer to its end, I could feel the shift coming. I built a proposal I was proud of, only for it to be shelved as Equitas moved toward financial crisis. The atmosphere grew cold. The work we poured our hearts into was acknowledged verbally, but never tangibly. No raises. No bonuses. Just more work.

The political climate was not theoretical. The work we were doing around Ending the Epidemic and serving the LGBTQ community was directly impacted by Trump-era legislation that targeted funding for both. That legislation stopped our original funder from being able to look for additional funding sources. It stopped Equitas from being able to match what little was available. It stopped me from pursuing other pots of money because everyone’s wells were running dry.

When I was officially laid off, I knew it was coming.

That knowledge did not soften the blow.

I knew in that moment that my season in nonprofit work, at least as a full-time job, had come to an end. What followed immediately was uncertainty. Grown man bills do not pause for transitions, and faith does not cancel fear.

Between March and May, unemployment became my reality. The first few weeks were spent coming to terms with unfinished work and unresolved purpose. There was still so much that needed to be done, and I was no longer the one doing it. Then came the harder question. What do I do next?

Wanting to help people does not pay the bills. Project management is versatile, but oversaturated. I found myself trying to reinvent myself professionally in real time, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I needed something that could sustain us and help us catch up.

The hardest part was realizing no one wanted to pay me what I was already making, and what I was making was not enough to begin with. We were already struggling. That pressure sent me into a depression. My insurance stopped covering Zepbound, so I had to come off it. I stress ate. I gained weight. On top of everything, I had been online for Men of D.I.S.T.I.N.C. since late January. I was mentally tapped.

One of my deepest insecurities has always been feeling like a burden, especially financially. Watching Shobe carry three adults on his income, his hair money, and whatever little my mom and I could contribute pushed me into a dark place. It chipped away at my sense of worth.

Shobe carried more than his share during that season. He encouraged me when I could not encourage myself. He tried new ways to lift my spirits. He carried us financially even when it stretched him thin. He did not stop trying, even when he did not have much left to give.

On May 27, I accepted an auditing role at Surge. A friend helped open the door. My husband already worked there. I told myself the stories I had heard since he started there in 2019 could not possibly get worse.

They did.

The first red flags were not just external. They were internal. I had not worked full-time in an office since COVID. I had been my own boss, supervising teams, making decisions. Suddenly, I was being managed. I learned quickly that when I am not in spaces where I have authority, it is hard for me to fall in line. High-production clerical work was not aligned with how my brain works. I had to restart my ADHD medication just to keep up. My blood pressure stayed high. I was diagnosed with hypertension.

The environment confirmed what my body already knew. There was a revolving door of employees. The CEO berated and fired people for updating their resumes. Fear was the leadership strategy. It felt less like a workplace and more like a corporate MAGA rally.

By June and July, Shobe and I could no longer avoid reality at home. The bills had become unmanageable. He had not received a raise in nearly two years, and bonuses he once relied on had disappeared. Income was shrinking while responsibilities increased, and reality demanded honesty. We wanted to eventually move away to a different place, but we refused to take unresolved finances with us into what was next.

At that point, it was no longer about tightening belts or waiting for things to turn around. We needed a real plan. One that protected our future, not just our pride. That is when we made the decision to consult an attorney and seriously consider bankruptcy as a path forward.

Once we paid the attorney fees and began gathering documents, the truth came out. The tax preparer we trusted had been falsifying our returns. She used FreeTaxUSA while claiming we self-prepared. She listed our businesses as janitorial companies with thousands of dollars in expenses and no income. Combined with debt we already carried, the picture was devastating. We were nearly eighty thousand dollars behind.

There was no single moment it hit me. It came in waves. Each document made the situation clearer. Each confirmation took more air out of the room.

When I heard the word bankruptcy, I felt shame and relief at the same time. I hoped it meant a clean start. Breathing room. Even knowing the student loans would remain, I just wanted space to live again.

Once Shobe and I officially started the bankruptcy process, something shifted in me at work too. The stakes felt higher. The margin for error felt thinner. Every decision suddenly carried more weight because there was no financial cushion left to fall back on.

I stayed at Surge longer than my spirit wanted to because the job market was ass. I stayed in auditing because I did not want my friends to think I could not hang. I did not want Shobe to regret me coming to his employer and not carrying my weight. With everything we had just uncovered financially, quitting or starting over again did not feel like an option. I needed stability, or at least the illusion of it.

So I stayed through the end of my ninety days believing that once I transferred out of auditing, I would land in a role where I could actually thrive.

Instead, I landed under a supervisor who did the bare minimum, avoided leadership, and could not make decisions without the SVP’s approval. She was more committed to protecting herself than supporting her team, and that lack of leadership became another quiet pressure point in an already heavy season.

By August and September, family tension reached its breaking point. A layered situation involving Shobe’s family spiraled into gossip, miscommunication, and outright disrespect. Despite my efforts to show up with love, I learned I was being painted as a gold digger and a wedge in the family. That hurt deeply, not because I needed approval, but because I had done nothing to deserve any of it.

That situation changed how I view family boundaries. Distance became necessary.

Around the same time, the reality of losing our home became unavoidable. When the attorney explained the trustee fees required to keep it, the math no longer made sense. The house needed significant repairs. Holding onto it would have cost us more than letting it go.

The hardest part was knowing people would talk. That it would look like instability. That some would say, I told you so. But that home held so many firsts for us. Our first home. Our first pets. The place we survived COVID. The place where so much of my life changed.

Letting it go hurt. Still, we held each other up and stayed optimistic.

On December 2, everything at Surge came to a head. I injured my head at work and suffered a concussion and neck sprain. I hesitated to file a workers’ compensation claim because I did not want unwanted attention, but the SVP strongly encouraged me to do so.

When I returned to work, my desk had not been maintained. I was immediately behind. I stayed late to catch up and planned to come in on my scheduled day off before my doctor’s appointments to finish what was due. I failed to communicate that plan clearly.

Instead of coaching or conversation, I was written up for issues that had never been framed as disciplinary concerns. When I told my supervisor I felt like she was trying to manage me out, she ignored it. I felt targeted. Watched. Pressured.

My blood pressure stayed dangerously high. That Wednesday, I sat at my desk in tears, overwhelmed to the point of physical collapse.

In the middle of that moment, my phone buzzed.

My Spec, close friend, and frat brother Kris, who had already helped us find an apartment, asked if I wanted a job in property management. I did not hesitate. I asked what it entailed and how soon I could start. At that point, my mental and physical health mattered more than anyone else’s comfort.

Being placed back into management felt like restoration. Before I even put in my notice, I was being invited to networking events and holiday parties. I was back in rooms where my experience was valued. In spaces where my strengths mattered. In a role that allowed me to help my family sustain again.

Working five minutes from my new home means rest. It means time. It means the ability to gather myself before the day begins.

If you are reading this and your year felt heavy, uncertain, or unfinished, hear me clearly. Survival is not your ceiling. It is your foundation. But overflow does not come from grinding harder or pretending you are fine. It comes from letting God move in your life in real ways, not just Sunday ways.

Not the God you perform for at church.

The God you talk to in your car.

The God you wrestle with in private.

The God who sees you when no one else does.

If you allow Him access beyond your image, your pride, and your fear, 2026 can look different. Not perfect. But aligned. Not easy. But purposeful.

So if this Wrapped taught me anything, it is this.

Stop surviving in silence.

Start building a real relationship with God.

Let Him carry what you were never meant to hold alone.

The shift from survival to overflow starts there.