Every Sunday, like clockwork, I transform into a budget economist with one mission: secure eight one-dollar coins for my apartment complex’s washer and dryer. And every Sunday, I find myself playing emotional roulette at the checkout. If I get a female cashier, she hands over the coins like I’ve asked for a plastic bag. ⋆✿ No drama ✿⋆. If it’s a male cashier? Suddenly, I’m hearing my own Dry July response echoed back at me: “I’ll try… but I can’t promise anything”.

A year ago, I was $8,000 in debt, living paycheque to paycheque, caught in a dopamine-depleted cycle of impulse purchases and weekly overdrafts. Each week, I’d repay what I owed from the week before, instantly putting my next week’s spending in the red before it had even begun.

I’m on my weekend morning walk, trying to undo the junk food I inhaled the night before, when a cat appears. Affectionate. Sultry. It follows me down the street, brushing up against anything and everything with full-body flirtation.

Somewhere between reaching my mid-30s and booking in more routine skin checks, something in me shifted. I used to chase things that looked impressive: the title, the chaos, the story-worthy version of my life. Now I crave low-stimulation workdays, quiet moments with my own thoughts (or a podcast), and a skincare routine that doesn’t involve the internet watching me get ready.