If you asked me to describe 2022, I'd tell you it was perfect—or at least it seemed that way. I had everything going for me: steady cash flow, a career I was proud of, and a relationship that felt solid. Life was smooth, predictable, and, dare I say, enviable. You know that feeling when everything aligns, and you think, This is it. I've made it? That was me.
But life has a way of humbling you, doesn't it?
It started with a single post. Just a casual scroll on social media one evening—mindlessly liking pictures, skipping through reels—and there it was: an ad promising a 30% return on investments. Thirty percent! My heart skipped a beat. I mean, it wasn't like I was broke, but who doesn't want more money? The idea of easy wealth hooked me instantly. The pitch was slick, the numbers seemed legitimate, and the testimonials—oh, they were glowing.
I didn't even stop to think. I was impulsive, driven by the idea that this could be my ticket to financial freedom, my "next big thing." Without hesitation, I emptied my savings. But that wasn't enough for me. I convinced friends and colleagues to join in too. Why not share the opportunity, right? I even saw myself as a hero, someone opening doors for others.
You can probably guess what happened next.
It didn't take long for the house of cards to collapse. Payments stopped. Communication with the so-called investment firm went silent. My inbox was suddenly filled with angry messages from friends and co-investors. "What happened to our money?" "Did you even check if this was legit?" The weight of their disappointment crushed me.
But here's the kicker: I didn't just lose my savings. I lost their trust. People who once respected me now saw me as reckless, maybe even deceitful. The shame was unbearable. I stopped answering calls, avoided social gatherings, and kept my curtains closed. If I didn't see the world, maybe the world wouldn't see me.
And just when I thought things couldn't get worse, my relationship—the one thing I thought would remain steady—crumbled too.
You'd think someone who loved you would step up during a crisis. Be your anchor when the storm hits. But no, not him. At first, he seemed supportive, offering comforting words like, "We'll get through this" and "It's just money; we'll recover." I clung to those words, desperate for reassurance.
But actions speak louder than words, don't they?
It started with him pulling away—subtle at first. Canceling plans. Ignoring my texts. Then came the excuses. "Work's been busy," he'd say. Or, "I just need some space to think." I tried to be understanding, even when his "thinking" started lasting days. Then came the moment that shattered me: I found out he was cheating.
The betrayal hit harder than the scam. Losing money hurt, but losing him? That tore my heart out. He was supposed to be my person, my safe place. Instead, he was just another source of pain, another reason to doubt myself.
I spiraled. There's no other way to put it. The weight of my failures—financial, personal, emotional—was suffocating. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think of anything but how much I had lost.
And then, one night, I made a decision.
I wish I could say it was a moment of clarity, a turning point where I vowed to rise above the ashes. But it wasn't. It was a moment of despair, pure and unfiltered. I couldn't see a way out. My mind convinced me that the world would be better without me—that I would be better without me.
So, I did it. I swallowed a handful of pills, took a blade to my wrist, and waited for the darkness to swallow me whole.
But fate had other plans.
I woke up in the harsh light of an emergency room, the sound of monitors beeping and nurses whispering around me. My body ached, my throat burned, and I felt…alive. Barely. But alive nonetheless.
And there he was.
Sitting by my side, holding my hand as if he cared. His eyes were red, his face pale. For a moment, I believed the lie that he still loved me. In my fragile state, I clung to the idea that this was a wake-up call for both of us—that he'd finally see my pain and step up.
For a few days, it seemed like he did. When I was discharged, he helped me settle back home, cooked meals, made me laugh. It felt like old times, like we were finally healing together.
But healing doesn't happen when the foundation is rotten.
It wasn't long before the cracks showed again. The long absences. The cold indifference. And then, the truth: he never stopped seeing her. The woman he cheated on me with. I confronted him, my voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. His response? A shrug. As if my pain meant nothing.
That's when I realized something: the problem wasn't just him or the scam or even the people who turned their backs on me. The problem was that I had tied my worth to people and things that could be taken away. I had spent my life building castles in the sand, and the tide had washed it all away.
I wish I could tell you that's where the story ends. That I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started fresh. But life isn't that neat, is it?
No, the story doesn't end here. It's just getting started.