Last night, I was awake at 3 a.m. doing the kind of math that makes your whole body feel sick.
Not baby math.
Not grocery math.
Not the kind of math where you’re trying to figure out how many diapers are left or whether there is enough milk to get through the morning.
Debt math.
The kind of math that sits on your chest.
The kind that makes you stare into the dark and think, how did we get here, and how the hell do we get out?
I still have $10,000 in debt.
Ten thousand dollars.
That number has followed me around for months like a shadow.
And I know how this sounds.
I know how this looks.
I know there are people who will read this and think, why are you writing about this publicly?
Or worse, why are you asking strangers for help?
Believe me, I am painfully aware.
There is no version of me writing this from a place of entitlement. There is no part of me that feels casual about putting this out into the world. I know this is uncomfortable. I know it is vulnerable. I know it is probably embarrassing.
But that is also why I write the way I write.
Because this is real.
This is the truth of where we are right now.
The debt did not come from one reckless shopping spree or one dramatic financial mistake.
It came from life.
From fertility treatments.
From medical bills.
From losing my job.
From surviving on a residency salary.
From the cost of trying to build a family before we fully understood how much that family would cost us emotionally, physically, and financially.
From every unexpected expense that arrived after our income changed.
From the thousand small emergencies that do not feel small when you are already living on the edge of what you can afford.
At one point, I was staring at tens of thousands of dollars in debt.
I have written about it before.
I have written about the credit card balances.
The fertility invoices.
The bills that stacked up after I was laid off.
The way life kept happening even when the income did not.
And I have worked so hard to bring that number down.
I mean genuinely hard.
Not in a cute, inspirational way.
In a selling-things-on-Poshmark, taking-any-side-opportunity-I-can-find, working-contract-jobs-from-home, writing-articles-for-pennies, checking-my-bank-account-before-buying-groceries kind of way.
I have sold clothing.
Baby items.
Things I loved.
Things I thought I would keep.
Things I looked at and thought, maybe this could become $20 toward a payment.
I have taken on little jobs wherever I can.
Contracts.
Odd projects.
Part-time work.
Anything that can be done while also raising my daughter full-time.
Anything that can fit into the margins of nap time, bedtime, and the tiny windows where I am not actively needed by another living being.
And still, this last $10,000 feels impossible to get past.
That is the part that makes me want to scream.
Because I have made progress.
Real progress.
I have clawed my way down from a number that felt completely unmanageable.
But now I am stuck here.
At $10,000.
Close enough that it feels like I should be able to finish it.
Far enough that I cannot seem to breathe.
That is the part I do not think people always understand.
Debt does not always come from stupidity.
Sometimes it comes from making decisions as one version of yourself, then waking up one day inside an entirely different life.
A life with a baby.
A life with one primary income.
A life built around a medical residency salary that covers the essentials, but not much beyond that.
A life where every unexpected expense feels like a small emergency.
And now, after everything we went through paying out of pocket for IVF before, we finally have coverage through my husband’s insurance.
Three rounds.
Three chances.
At least in theory.
And I am unbelievably grateful for that.
I know what a privilege that is.
I know how many women would do anything for fertility coverage.
But it also feels almost cruel in a way, because before this, we did not have that opportunity. We paid out of pocket. We put ourselves through years of emotional and financial depletion trying to have a baby.
And now that we finally have insurance coverage, we are still carrying the financial wreckage of what it took to get here.
That is the strange part of survival.
Sometimes the help arrives after you have already been damaged.
And I want to be clear about something else.
This $10,000 is not even the biggest number in our life.
My husband has around $350,000 in medical school debt.
Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
That number is so massive it almost becomes abstract.
And yet, weirdly, I am not panicking about that in the same way.
Because one day, when he finishes this path, when he becomes an attending, when the training finally turns into the career he has sacrificed so much for, I know we will be able to take that on.
That debt is enormous, but it belongs to a future version of our life that will hopefully have more breathing room.
What I am trying to survive is now.
The next five years.
Four more years of residency.
One year of fellowship.
Five more years of living inside this strange in-between where my husband is working like an attending, carrying the responsibility of someone’s life in his hands, but still being paid like a trainee.
Five more years of me trying to hold the home together, raise our daughter, work in whatever fragmented ways I can, and make sure we do not financially collapse before we even get to the part of life everyone keeps promising will be better.
And I know people will say, “Well, one day you’ll be fine.”
Maybe.
I hope so.
I really do.
But “one day” does not buy diapers today.
“One day” does not pay down the credit card balance that is accruing interest right now.
“One day” does not make groceries less expensive this week.
“One day” does not quiet the panic at 3 a.m. when you are staring at numbers you cannot make move fast enough.
And that is what I think people sometimes misunderstand about future stability.
A promising future does not cancel out present suffering.
Yes, my husband will likely have the ability to pay off his medical school debt one day.
Yes, I know this is temporary.
Yes, I know we are not the only family struggling.
Everyone has their own version of tragedy, stress, debt, grief, fear, or survival.
But knowing other people have it hard too does not mean I have to suffer silently.
It does not mean I am not allowed to ask for help.
It does not mean I have to pretend this season is not crushing simply because another season may someday be easier.
That is the part I keep coming back to.
You can be responsible for your life and still need support.
You can know you will one day be okay and still not be okay right now.
You can work hard, sell things, take contracts, write for pennies, stretch every dollar, and still need someone to say, “I can help you with one dollar today.”
Asking for help does not mean I am refusing to do the work.
It means I am being honest about the fact that I am already doing the work, and it still is not enough yet.
Ten thousand dollars may not be a lot of money to some families.
I know that.
To some people, $10,000 is a vacation.
A bonus.
A manageable inconvenience.
To a family living paycheck to paycheck on a resident’s salary, it is enormous.
It is the difference between breathing and bracing.
It is the difference between buying groceries without panic and mentally subtracting every item in the cart before you reach the register.
It is the difference between paying down the past and only having to worry about what is directly in front of us.
Right now, my husband’s salary covers the essentials.
Rent.
Utilities.
Food.
Insurance.
The basics of keeping our family housed, fed, and functioning.
And I am grateful for that.
Truly.
But essentials are not the whole of life.
Essentials do not cover every diaper, every medical bill, every car issue, every unexpected vet expense, every fertility-related cost, every item a growing child suddenly needs.
Essentials do not cover the emotional cost of constantly being one expense away from spiraling.
And yes, I write on Medium.
I know some people think that means I am making money here.
So let me be very clear.
I make pennies.
Literal pennies sometimes.
Some articles make a few dollars. Some barely move at all. Some months, if I am lucky, I might make around $10 from Medium.
The most I have ever made on one article was around $120, and that happened when I basically blasted open my entire life at one of my lowest points.
That was the “big” article.
That was the one that did well.
And even then, it was $120.
I am not saying that with bitterness.
I am saying it because there seems to be this idea that writing personal essays online somehow translates into meaningful income.
For me, it does not.
This space has given me community.
It has given me readers.
It has given me a place to process the most embarrassing, painful, vulnerable, ridiculous, beautiful parts of my life.
But it has not given me financial stability.
So when people say I should not ask for help, I think they are imagining a version of this that does not exist.
They imagine I am profiting off my pain.
I am not.
I am writing through it.
There is a difference.
I write these pieces like journal entries because that is what they are.
I write about motherhood while I am still in the middle of it.
I write about financial stress while I am actively trying to survive it.
I write about IVF, marriage, loneliness, resentment, joy, exhaustion, diapers, dogs, medical bills, and the absurdity of trying to build a meaningful life when everything feels like it costs more than you have.
I do not wait until I am healed.
I do not wait until I am polished.
I write from the floor.
From the kitchen.
From the car.
From the edge of my bed at 3 a.m. when I am staring at a number that feels both enormous and strangely simple.
Because last night I had this thought.
If 10,000 people donated $1, I would be done.
One dollar.
That is it.
One dollar from 10,000 people, and the debt that has been swallowing so much of my brain would be gone.
I could stop waking up in the middle of the night panicking.
I could stop carrying this constant low-grade dread.
I could stop feeling like every grocery trip, every pack of diapers, every bill, every unexpected expense is pulling us further behind.
I could breathe.
And again, I know how that sounds.
I really do.
I know it sounds desperate.
That is because I am.
I have never pretended to be above needing help.
I have never pretended that I am too proud or too polished or too self-sufficient to admit when things are hard.
This is hard.
And maybe that makes people uncomfortable.
But it is also honest.
We live in a world where people can spend $7 on coffee, $20 on delivery fees, $15 on something they forget they even ordered.
And I am sitting here thinking, what if one dollar could actually change the way a family breathes this month?
What if one dollar could become part of something bigger?
What if one dollar was not small because it was multiplied by care?
That is what I kept thinking about at 3 a.m.
Not some grand miracle.
Not some wealthy person sweeping in and fixing everything.
Just people.
A lot of people.
Each giving something tiny.
Something barely felt individually, but life-changing collectively.
And that is what makes me emotional.
Because this community has already shown me that strangers can become a village.
You have bought diapers.
Wipes.
Books.
Little things for my daughter.
Things that have made me cry because they showed up at exactly the moment I felt like I was running out of options.
And I know I say thank you a lot, but I do not think I will ever say it enough.
When support does not come from where you thought it would, it means something profound when it comes from somewhere else.
It means something when people who have never met you decide your child matters.
It means something when someone reads your words and thinks, I can help her today.
It means something when a notification comes in and suddenly one tiny piece of the week feels less impossible.
That is not small to me.
It has never been small to me.
So yes, I am asking again.
Awkwardly.
Honestly.
Painfully aware of how it looks.
And with my whole heart.
If you are able to donate $1 through Venmo, I would be more grateful than I can possibly explain.
No mystery.
No vague ask.
Just the number that has been keeping me awake.
And if you cannot help financially, I understand.
Please believe me, I understand.
Reading matters.
Sharing matters.
Commenting matters.
Being here matters.
I am not entitled to anyone’s money.
I know that.
But I am allowed to ask.
I am allowed to be honest about what is happening.
I am allowed to say that I am tired of pretending vulnerability should only be emotional and never practical.
Because the truth is, life does not separate those things.
Debt is emotional.
Motherhood is financial.
Stress is physical.
Survival is logistical.
And right now, I am trying to survive while raising a little girl who deserves a mother who is not constantly being swallowed by fear.
I want to worry about normal things.
Groceries.
Dinner.
Laundry.
Whether my daughter has enough diapers.
Whether she is getting enough outside time.
Whether I remembered to switch the wet clothes into the dryer.
I do not want to keep waking up at 3 a.m. doing debt math in the dark.
So this is me asking.
Not because I think I am owed anything.
Not because I think my story is more important than anyone else’s.
But because I have spent the last year telling the truth here, and this is the truth today.
One dollar would help.
One share would help.
One person deciding to care would help.
And if enough people did something small, something enormous could happen.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for showing up.
Thank you for making me feel, again and again, like maybe I am not carrying this completely alone.
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ABOUT ME:
Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.
In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.
Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.
If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.
🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Fiona’s Story(Author)
