I don’t know if this even counts as a confession, really. It’s more… I don’t know. A quiet kind of embarrassment, maybe. I think maybe I’ve been living a bit of a lie, and it’s finally catching up to me. Or maybe it’s just that I’m getting older now, you know? (I’m 62, if that matters). And when you’re 62, you start looking back at things, wondering if you did them right. Wondering what you’re leaving behind. For years, I’ve been… well, I’ve been posting these photos. On social media, I mean. From all these amazing places. Bali, the Maldives, Santorini… all those places you see in travel magazines. Blue water, white sand, infinity pools, fancy drinks with little umbrellas. My friends and colleagues, they always comment, “Oh, you’re living the dream!” or “Another fabulous trip, you globetrotter!” And I’d smile, say thank you, post another photo of my feet in the sand. It felt good, I guess, for a little while. Like I was someone important. Someone who had made it. The thing is, none of it was really… real. Not in the way they thought. That last trip, to that resort in Fiji, for example. The one with the overwater bungalows? It looked incredible in the pictures, right? And it WAS beautiful, don't get me wrong. But what I didn't show was the bill. Or the fact that I’d put the whole thing on a new credit card. A high-interest one, because my existing ones were already pretty much maxed out. I told myself it was for "inspiration" for my art, or something. (I used to paint, you know? Before marketing took over everything.) I've been taking these extra freelance marketing jobs, late at night, after my regular work. When everyone else is watching TV or sleeping. Just to cover the minimum payments on those cards. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I feel like my brain is just… humming with numbers. How many hours do I need to work to pay for that flight to Costa Rica? How many more late nights before I can afford to pretend to be a wealthy traveler again? My eyes get blurry looking at screens all day, and then all night. My hands ache sometimes. My partner, bless his heart, he doesn't really understand. He's more of a homebody. He'd be perfectly happy with a quiet weekend away, maybe somewhere local. He sees the credit card statements, of course, and he tries to talk to me about it. Says things like, "Honey, are these trips really worth it?" And I just… I don't know. I get defensive. I say it's for my "well-being" or "to clear my head." Because I can't bring myself to tell him the truth. That I feel like I HAVE to keep up this image. That if I stop, if I admit I can’t afford it, then what? What will people think? What will I be? I don't know if it’s a creative person thing, this need to be seen a certain way. Or maybe it’s just me. I always felt like my art wasn’t quite good enough, not practical enough. My parents always said I needed a "real job." So I went into marketing. And I’ve been… good at it, I guess. It pays the bills. Well, it *used* to pay the bills. Now it pays for the illusion of a life I don't actually have. I wonder sometimes if my younger self, the one who painted messy canvases and dreamed of living in a loft, would even recognize me now. She’d probably shake her head. The hardest part, I think, is when people ask me about my "retirement plans." They say, "You've worked so hard, you deserve to relax! All those amazing trips, you'll have so many memories." And I just smile and nod, because what am I supposed to say? That those amazing trips are why I probably *can’t* retire comfortably? That the memories are… expensive? I feel like I'm running out of runway, both financially and just… energy-wise. I’m tired of performing. I’m tired of the guilt. I just… I don’t know what to do. I look at those pictures now, on my phone, and they feel hollow. Like a beautiful lie. And I wonder if anyone else out there feels this way. Like they built a whole life that looks great on the outside, but inside it’s just… mounting debt and a quiet kind of panic. I don’t know if I’m looking for advice, or just… to feel like I’m not the only one who messed up this badly. (It feels like a big mess, even if it looks so shiny in the photos). I just wanted to be seen, I think. To be admired. And now… well, now I just want to disappear.