I sat for a moment with my hands still on the wheel, letting the engine tick softly as it cooled. The dashboard clock read 12:09 a.m. My scrubs smelled faintly of disinfectant and burnt coffee from the urgent care center where I worked twelve-hour shifts coordinating patient intake, insurance authorizations, and enough angry people to make any belief in human patience feel theoretical. I was exhausted, the kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and makes the world look smudged at the edges. My feet hurt. My lower back ached. All I wanted was to wash my face, take out my contacts, and crawl into bed beside my husband without having to talk about whose turn it was to run the dishwasher.
That was still the version of life I thought I was walking toward.