By Emily Harrison • January 31, 2026 • Share
Sometimes, I wonder what people see when they look at me now. Maybe they see a tired woman with dark circles and frizzy hair, wearing pharmacy scrubs that smell faintly like antiseptic. Maybe they see someone who gave up a little — someone who stopped trying.
What they don’t see is the 5 a.m. wake-ups, the three kids I dress and feed and ferry to school before most people open their eyes. They don’t see me stocking shelves, calling insurance companies, juggling prescriptions for strangers while praying I remembered to take the chicken out of the freezer. They don’t see that I’m still showing up — every single day — even when no one thanks me for it. But he sees it. He sees all of it. And he mocks me for it anyway.
When I married Ryan 12 years ago, life had all endless possibilities. Ryan was ambitious, funny, thoughtful — the kind of man who brought me flowers just because. We built a life together. A real life in a house with a stained carpet and mismatched mugs, a fridge covered in handprint art, and three wild, beautiful children.
I work as a pharmacist. It’s a job I’m proud of, even when it drains me. I’m on my feet for hours, juggling 20 different things, while attending to customers who think I personally set drug prices. Some days, I barely sit down. But it’s a steady job — one that provides well for my family. And for a while, Ryan understood that.
Almost a year ago, he lost his job. It was a company layoff, sudden and unexpected. We told ourselves that it was just temporary. That he’d take a moment to regroup. And that it would be fine. At first, I helped. I stayed up after long shifts revising Ryan’s résumé, combing through job boards while our youngest slept in my arms.
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