I just scrolled past another baby announcement, another house photo, and my thumb almost cramped from the endless scrolling. Thirty years old and I'm still just... me, drawing commissions from my tiny studio apartment, watching my old classmates build these suburban empires. There's this gnawing feeling, right? Like, am I doing it wrong? Or is it that we're all just performing this pantomime of success, and I'm the only one who didn't get the script—the one where your art *actually* buys you a house and a future, not just another month's rent. My brain feels fizzy with it, this pressure to BE something, when all I really want is to just BE, you know? And maybe for that to be enough.