Graced with Grit

(Especially When You’re Tired of Surviving)

There’s a version of myself I wish I could always be. The one who claps without hesitation, who squeals with joy at good news, and celebrates without flinching.
But sometimes I hesitate. Not because I’m unkind, but because I’m tired. Sometimes it’s hard to be happy for others when it feels like you’re still just trying to make it.

It’s hard to be genuinely happy for someone who’s never known what it feels like to choose between groceries and rent.
Who lives rent-free while I’m calculating every paycheck against gas, insurance, student loans, and that ever-growing credit card I didn’t want, but needed.
Who takes unpaid internships in dreamy cities while I take the full-time job I’m overqualified for because I can’t afford to “just figure it out.”

It’s not their fault.
They didn’t ask for the privilege.
But it’s still there.

And sometimes it’s loud.

When someone gets to travel the world because they didn’t have to pay for college.
When they’re debt-free in their twenties because their parents picked up the tab.
When they’re chasing dreams, while I’m chasing the next paycheck and praying nothing unexpected breaks.

It’s a weird grief. A heavy mix of envy, shame, and exhaustion.
I don’t want to feel it.
But I do.

Because some of us didn’t start at the starting line.
We started behind it. Weighted down with debt, trauma, caregiving, or just the quiet burden of being responsible too young.
So no, it’s not always easy to cheer loudly.

It doesn’t mean I don’t love my people.
It just means joy feels different when you’ve earned every inch of it the hard way.

And sometimes, I need to grieve the life I didn’t get, before I can celebrate the one they do. Two things can exist at once; I can mourn for myself while still holding joy for them.
Because I want to be someone who claps, even through clenched teeth, even with tears in my eyes.

And maybe that’s where the real growth lives:
In celebrating others, even when your own story is still unfolding.
In knowing you can feel the ache of what you didn’t have, while still honoring the beauty of what they do.