Mistakes Were Not An Option. I Messed Up Anyway.

The reluctant art of falling under pressure when failure isn't allowed.

This job application is no longer available.

No matter how many times I refreshed the webpage, the message didn’t disappear. The opportunity was gone because instead of twenty-four, I wrote twenty-five. Despite a few more aimless, frantic clicks, the truth remained the same.

The job application was no longer available.

Reality sank, and my hands began to shake. Head bowed. Face wet. I sobbed. Tears fell faster than I could catch them as I sagged against my seat. The black leather chair shook with each deep, empty breath. Without thinking, my fingers fumbled over my phone, and I called my mother. When she greeted me, everything cracked and flooded.

“I got the app dates wrong,” I stuttered. Words left my mouth in the shape of squeaks and despair. “I never get dates wrong.”

She released an empathy-drenched hum that hollowed against the devastation in my heart. I laid a cheek on the cool white table below me. This desk saw me through middle school to high school, traveled with me to the state six hours over, and stuck around in this third-floor overpriced city apartment. Today, the furniture offered no reassurance, its disloyalty a mocking cherry on top of a toppling cake.

My mother sighed. “You’re okay,” she reassured. “It was just a mistake.”

A mistake.

The words bounced off my back like rubber balls on cold winter cement because this wasn’t about being okay or just another mistake. This was about exposure—dams breaking from ignored wear, tear, and erosion. This was about being unemployed for the first time and wondering how long I had before the life I built began to quake because, suddenly, I was too stupid to see the difference between twenty-four and twenty-motherfucking-five.

Dull nails scraped sensitive skin as I wiped my face. Confirmation of a truth I hid deep in the shadows found light, and I officially couldn’t look away. I was unwell. Burnt in and out.

Lost.

For months, circles looked like squares, blacks turned to blues, and the trees grew paws, fangs, and tails. Reality returned to normal after a few blinks. Surely, it was just a lack of sleep. Not eating enough throughout the day. Nothing that couldn’t be resolved with one less cup of coffee and a few squishy, strawberry-flavored melatonin gummies. Except I didn’t drink coffee. I rarely get out of bed, and some days I can't stop eating.

Now, I weep. I mourn the loss of ignorant bliss and an unshaken foundation, crying over spilled milk I had no intention of drinking. I laugh at my fragility, how a single typo turned into a mirror and made me crumble at my reflection.

The unfortunate part? I’ve not stopped unraveling. The milk continues to spill. The truth grows bigger. Trees grow fangs from time to time. Maybe it’s for the best. Ignored dams don’t get fixed, and light will always cast out shadows.

What if, instead of resistance, I turned a willing eye and ear to what’s being revealed and see what grows in the cracks?