What Does A Healthy Future Look Like for Me?
After a year of unemployment, I’m tackling the personal aspect of my newsletter’s most political question.
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“What do you want?”
“For all of this to be over,” I said.
I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, my chest tightening. I paused. Looked up at the ceiling to avoid making eye contact with her or myself in the camera.
“What does that mean?”
I took a deep breath.
This year has been challenging. I’ve been out of work since April 2025. I’ve barely freelanced because my pitches are, I assume, lost in a sea of other pitches sent by jobless writers who need the money just as much as I do. Or, maybe, no publication cares about what I want to write about, which tracks, and has, ultimately, been what pushed me out of the newsroom anyway, so my resistance to acquiesce bites me in the ass once again. Healthy Futures isn’t profitable—mostly because I refuse to put the stuff people would pay for behind a paywall since the point of my access is to give it to people who don’t have it. A holdover from my time in journalism and nonprofits that makes me feel like a mule, but is also simply the right thing to do when you’re working with marginalized groups in mind.
Applying for jobs is a humiliation ritual I can’t participate in in good faith. I do it because I feel like I’m supposed to, but somehow, I also feel like it’s a massive waste of my time because, hundreds of applications later, I’m still unemployed, and I’m really starting to take that personally.
No, I am taking that personally.
Of course, this isn’t only happening to me; it’s happening to too many of us. But I feel it so acutely that I can’t really think about anybody else or anything outside of the dwindling number in my bank account and the fact that there is no money coming in.
I’ve been thinking, or I guess this all makes me think about a question I ask every person I interview for my newsletter: “What does a healthy future look like to you?” The sameness of the responses is what I like most. It’s always some combination of healthcare for all, safe housing, economic security, nutritious foods, limited stress, and real choice—not the false ones presented to us at every turn. Every expert reiterates that, to thrive, we all need these basic human rights. No argument from me on that. But we focus on the conditions of a healthy future, we don’t stop to imagine, even for a second, what it feels like.
What does a Tuesday feel like when you’re not in survival mode? What do you want out of life when the wanting isn’t shaped by fear or instability?
That is an answer I’m not sure I know, but damn it, I want to. I’ve spent so long cataloguing what’s broken that I haven’t spent enough time figuring out what whole looks like for me on a random morning when nothing is on fire. I’ve come close to it, though, once before, in 2019, on a trip to Aruba. I think about this moment often, even though it involves my ex (lol). We were floating just offshore in warm, crystal blue Caribbean water. We were in that still moment before it starts to rain, when the clouds shield most of the sun, but you can still see it peeking from behind the cover. The beach was empty and quiet. My body was fully relaxed; my brow wasn’t furrowed for once. I’ve never felt more at peace.
That version of myself, the one who isn’t in crisis, feels fictitious because I’ve been in crisis for so long. But I’m trying to see her. I’m trying to do it on the pages of my journal, in here with you, on are.na and Pinterest boards, in my TikTok and Instagram folders, and, at times, in public. Either way, it’s really tough, and I often do not know what, if anything, I can feasibly do.
“I just want two weeks where I’m not scared all the time,” I finally respond. “I know that life isn’t perfect and there will always be a mountain to climb, but can I have a break? I want a break. Really, it’s been hit after hit since 2020. So I don’t care how this wraps up. I don’t care what’s on the other side of it. I’ll either be happy, miserable, or I won’t give a fuck. And I don’t give a fuck about how I’ll feel once this chapter of my life is done. I just need it to be done.”
My therapist’s face falls, and so do my tears.
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My heart breaks for you but I’m optimistic for your future. Wishing you all the best xx
Julia I am so sorry to hear this is happening to you. You’re not alone. You are brilliant and just deserve so much better. Praying things turn around.