BREAK
I broke that night.
I held my best friend’s hand and cried. I cried like I had never cried before. Not the kind of crying that brings relief. This was different.
This was a complete break.
I had been thinking about going to the doctor and asking for stress leave. I knew I needed help. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I had heard the conversations about other district managers who had taken leave.
They were “weak.”
They were “just doing it to take advantage of the company.”
I couldn’t let them say—or think—that about me.
So I kept going.
Even when I knew I couldn’t go another day—another hour, another phone call—carrying that level of stress and anxiety.
I felt emotionally trapped.
Haunted.
When COVID hit, I was responsible for 16 payday advance locations along California’s Central Coast. I had been groomed for 18 years by my regional manager to be the model of control, success, and strength.
“Fake it till you make it,” she used to say.
So I did.
Some of my employees were terrified to come to work because they believed they could be exposed to the virus and die. Others simply quit because they had no childcare. The daycares were closed. Schools were closed.
Everything was closing.
Except us.
My employer refused to close our doors.
Not even for one day.
We reduced staffing until some stores had only one employee working. We locked the doors and let customers inside one at a time.
Everyone entering wore something over their face.
Today, we remember masks as part of COVID. But in the beginning, many people didn’t have medical masks. They wore bandannas and makeshift coverings.
For some of my employees, seeing a masked person walk through the door wasn’t just unsettling.
It was terrifying.
Several had been robbed before.
I knew what those phone calls sounded like.
So I became afraid of my phone.
Every ring made my stomach drop.
Maybe someone was calling out sick again.
Maybe there had been another robbery.
Maybe it was a text with more bad news.
Maybe both.
Would there be tears or screaming on the other end?
Hold it together.
Had someone been duct-taped in the bathroom again?
Not this call.
Thank God.
But someone had a fever.
Someone had been exposed to COVID.
Someone couldn’t come in tomorrow.
And during those early months, an exposure could mean a 14-day quarantine.
Fourteen days.
Who would cover the store?
Usually, the answer was me.
I drove hours to keep locations open. Sometimes two or three hours each way. I worked stores myself for days at a time. Sometimes I spent half the day at one location and the other half at another, just so both doors could remain open.
I never knew where I would be the next morning.
Can’t sleep.
I never knew what the next phone call would bring.
A 3 a.m. break-in?
Broken glass?
An alarm.
Police.
Panic.
And then morning would come, and I would do it all again.
At the same time, our business was collapsing.
Many customers used their stimulus checks to pay off their loans. Revenue disappeared.
My income—once a six-figure salary—was cut nearly in half.
Almost overnight.
And then there were the customers who hadn’t received a check.
They weren’t working.
They were scared.
They were desperate to pay bills.
Desperate to feed their families.
Desperate people walked into our stores with their faces covered while frightened employees stood alone behind the counter.
Outside, the world looked almost unrecognizable.
Vodka companies were making hand sanitizer.
Hospitals were filling up.
Businesses were dark.
There were stay-at-home orders and curfews.
I carried a letter in my car stating that I was an essential worker in case I was stopped while driving to another store.
And somehow, through all of this, I was supposed to go home and be strong there, too.
I still had a family to provide for.
I still had to keep them safe.
My son was home, trying to teach himself through a computer screen.
After spending the day worrying about employees, robberies, COVID exposures, staffing, revenue, and whether another store would need me tomorrow, I would come home and prepare late-night meals.
I tried to be a teacher for my son.
But the truth is, he was mostly on his own.
My brain had nothing left to give.
I was exhausted.
Anxious.
Stressed.
Worried.
Scared.
Alone.
I was hanging by a thread.
And I started to envy my friends who got to stay home.
Then I envied the people who were getting paid to stay home.
Eventually, that envy turned into anger.
I was angry at anyone who didn’t have to work.
Angry at people who seemed to be getting a break while I was being pushed further and further past mine.
I knew that wasn’t fair.
They had their own fears. Their own losses. Their own COVID stories.
But at the time, I couldn’t see them.
I could only see how tired I was.
How scared I was.
How badly I wanted everything to stop.
They had a break.
I had a breakdown.
And then, one night, my body and mind finally did what I had refused to allow myself to do.
They stopped.
I held my best friend’s hand and sobbed.
Everything I had swallowed—the fear, the anger, the responsibility, the exhaustion, the resentment, the anxiety—came out at once.
I broke.
People talk about COVID as though it ended when the masks came off and the businesses reopened.
For some of us, it didn’t.
There are things I carried out of that time with me.
My relationship with work changed.
My relationship with stress changed.
Even the sound of a phone ringing changed.
I learned that a person can keep functioning long after they have stopped being okay.
You can show up.
You can unlock the doors.
You can answer the phone.
You can solve everyone else’s problems.
You can keep saying, “I’m fine.”
Until one day, you can’t.
COVID didn’t take my life.
But the strong person who entered that pandemic is not the same person who came out of it.
There were lasting effects from my breakdown.
When you fail to protect your own mind and body from harm, something happens to the trust you have in yourself.
I stopped trusting myself.
And when you don’t trust yourself, how do you trust anyone else?
You question everything—including your own judgment.
Nothing feels completely safe.
You live in a constant state of worry and self-preservation.
But you try.
You try to heal.
And sometimes, you still pretend.
Fake it till you make it.
Except now I understand something I didn’t understand then.
Pretending to be strong was never strength.
True strength is knowing your limits.
It is taking care of yourself before there is nothing left to take care of.
It is asking for help when you need it.
It is understanding that your worth is not measured by how much pain you can tolerate without letting anyone see you struggle.
So take your lunch break.
Use your vacation days.
Stay home when you're sick.
Turn off your phone.
Hold your best friend's hand and cry if you need to.
Ask for help.
I spent 18 years being exactly who they needed me to be.
Strong.
Controlled.
Disconnected.
Unbreakable.
The moment I stopped faking it, I became everything they warned me not to be.
Vulnerable.
Unpredictable.
Human.
Deemed Dangerous.
Not because I was a threat to anyone.
But because I was no longer willing to sacrifice my well-being for their paychecks and mind games.
In my story, a breakdown became a breakthrough.