Pressed but Not Crushed
I may only be dirt, but even dust can float and be beautiful in the morning sun.
“We are hard-pressed in every way, but not cramped beyond movement; we are perplexed, but not absolutely with no way out.” — 2 Corinthians 4:8
I’m writing less these days.
At first, it felt healthy—like I was finally stepping away from the screen to live a little. But over the past few weeks, something else has taken root: a chronic, unshakable anxiety. The kind that settles in your chest like a ticking bomb and whispers: This could kill you.
All of it, I think, comes down to the same root: the need to make a living.
The Collapse
I haven’t looked for a job since 2002.
I’ve been in the advertising industry for 25 years—12 as a studio production artist, 13 as a freelancer. And somehow, I just kept stumbling into the next opportunity, one success after another. I’d daydream about other careers, even sent out a few résumés during my studio days, but I never needed a job.
Until now.
Now, I can’t find work.
And worse—neither can anyone else.
The industry is collapsing. Between AI’s takeover and an economy spiraling toward insolvency, traditional advertising is all but gone. Budgets are laughable. Agencies are folding or laying off half their staff. Those still breathing have no interest in freelancers.
It’s not just me. Everyone I know in the business is struggling. It’s like someone deleted our names from the universe.
The Drift
My depression began last fall after I made a few personal choices that cost me dearly—relationships I’ll never get back. That sadness deepened with the deaths of my sister-in-law and father-in-law earlier this year. Then my partner got severely ill, and the misery shifted from worrying about myself to worrying about her.
By early June, the fog lifted just enough to see how bad things had gotten.
I realized I hadn’t had a consistent or meaningful source of income since August of 2024.
Ten months. No paid work. Not even the usual pro bono stuff. Just… silence.
Faith in the Fire
I’ve been praying for peace. For patience. For work. The Bible says we’ll have what we need. But that promise hits differently when you’re wondering if what you need is simply a bed and a crust of bread—not a house, not reliable cars, not your favorite groceries.
I’m trying to trust God. But I’m afraid.
I think about Daniel in the lions’ den. I always imagined him brave—heroic even. But now I wonder: was he terrified? Did he flinch every time he heard a growl in the dark? Only after the test could he look back and see how it strengthened him.
All my friends tell me: God’s hand is not too short. He will take care of you.
And I know this. Intellectually. But my heart? That’s always been my Achilles’ heel. Fierce, unruly, overpowered by feeling.
The Wiggle Room
Still—some light breaks through.
Last week, I had a beautiful call with an old producer friend. She was effervescent, bubbling with joy. It reminded me of the man I used to be. When I pray and ask where he went, the only answer I hear is this silent echo: You are still him. Just buried. Pressed, but not beyond movement.
That phrase sticks with me. Pressed, but not beyond movement.
It makes me think of being buried alive. If you have just a little space, you can start to dig. It’s dark and terrifying—but you’re not dead yet. There’s still air. There’s still time.
And dig, I am.
The Mule Realization
I had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. It helped lower some stress—though now we’re watching my heart rhythm. A new anxiety in the mix. More tests to come.
It’s a strange thing, realizing I have limitations. I always thought of myself as a high-functioning mule—just load me up and I’ll keep going.
Turns out, even mules are mortal.
Lexapro might help. So might exercise. But if I’m honest, what I need more than anything is meaningful work. The lack of purpose is its own kind of illness.
Hope, Thin as Thread
Still, I’m getting good calls again. Some of them even hopeful. It’s all possibilities right now, which feels better than silence. The world isn’t all bleak and shut doors—there are openings. The work now is to find which ones are real. And then walk through them.
In the meantime, I’m reminding myself:
Stay bright.
Even when it’s dark.
Even when you can’t see the light.
Stay bright.
Joy isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s the quiet confidence that the sun still exists—even when you’re in the pit.
That’s where I am. Digging in the dark. But still moving.
Still here.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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