I Thought This Would Be Good for Us

It has only been three days, and I already can’t stand being here.

That feels dramatic to admit, especially because this move was supposed to be a good thing. Strategic. Temporary. An opportunity. We moved an hour away so my husband could spend the next six months rotating at another Level 1 trauma center. This is good for his career. This is good for his training. This is what you do when you’re married to a neurosurgery resident and you believe in the long game.

But I am sitting in this apartment, and I feel completely undone.

A few people asked practical questions after my last article, so I want to clarify. Yes, we still have our original apartment. We are keeping it through the rest of his residency. That alone feels like a relief because that place is home. I made it home. I chose every corner, every light source, every little detail that made being alone most days survivable. Keeping it also helps us save on utilities since we won’t be there much, and the neurosurgery program pays for this apartment and all the utilities here.

On paper, it makes sense.

In reality, I feel trapped.

When we first got here, I was excited. Genuinely excited. We are finally in a city. Real grocery stores. More food options. The idea that maybe I could take a workout class or walk somewhere that didn’t feel so isolating. It felt like a tiny taste of normal life.

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Then reality set in.

I don’t have a car here.

If I take my husband’s car, that means getting up at 4 a.m. with a baby, driving him to work, and then being stranded again. Anyone married to a surgical resident knows they don’t leave with cushion time. He rolls out the door minutes before his shift starts. That option is not real.

So I am here.

All day.

Every day.

The most I can do is take the dogs out. Today it rained, and I couldn’t afford to let two 95-pound dogs get soaked and muddy because that meant hauling them into a tub and scrubbing paws that barely fit. I am tired in a way that feels bone-deep. Today was just a really bad day.

I texted my husband to ask if he’d be home. It’s 8 p.m. now. No response. That means he’s in surgery. Normally, that wouldn’t even faze me. I’ve lived this life long enough to know what silence means. But this rotation is different. He’s here to do surgery and only surgery. There is no checking a phone. No stepping away. No quick reply.

I’m used to being alone.

That’s not new.

What’s new is being alone in a place that doesn’t feel like mine.

At least before, I was alone in a space I worked so hard to build. A space that held me together. Here, everything feels temporary and cheap and not worth investing in. I can’t imagine spending money to make this place feel better when money already feels tight. Even if I wanted to go to a workout, I would need a car. I would need childcare. I would need resources that I just don’t have access to right now.

My mom said she could come up next week for a few days. She can watch my daughter while I go to a workout. I found a one-month membership for $40. A new member promo. I don’t know if I can afford the months after that. I don’t know if it’s responsible. I just know I need something that reminds me I still exist as a person.

What hurts more than I expected is that even this help feels transactional. My mom offered because she wants to use my address to lower her car insurance, which means changing her license, changing states, handling paperwork. I’ll make it work. In exchange, she watches my daughter so I can try to feel human again.

It’s not malicious.

It’s just not unconditional.

And I think that’s what’s breaking me open right now. Everything feels conditional. Everything feels like a calculation. Nothing feels like someone stepping in and saying, I see you drowning, let me help.

Meanwhile, my husband is saving lives. Literally. And I am counting hours in an apartment I already resent.

I don’t write this for pity. I don’t write this because I regret our choices. I write it because this is the truth of what these seasons look like. The part no one romanticizes. The part where growth feels lonely and sacrifice feels heavy and you question whether you’re allowed to admit that something “good” still hurts.

If you’ve supported us in any way lately, through kind words, through showing up, through helping us prepare for our daughter’s baptism, please know I feel it. I carry it. It matters more than I can articulate when so much feels out of my control.

I don’t know what the next six months will look like. I just know that three days in, I am struggling. And maybe that’s okay to say out loud.

Because pretending this is easy would be the real lie.

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UPDATED BIO:

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.

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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.

💸 Donate here — Venmo

🍼 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.