This Isn’t Living—It’s Survival in Disguise

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to really live. Not just exist. Not just wake up, clock in, grind through another day for someone else’s profit, and collapse into bed too tired to remember why it all feels so heavy. But actually live. And if I’m being honest—with myself, with you—I don’t think most of us are really living anymore.

We were sold a dream. Go to school, get a job, work hard, and you’ll have a good life. You’ll own a home. You’ll raise your kids with security. You’ll be rewarded.

But that dream’s been repossessed, foreclosed, and auctioned off to the highest bidder.

What we got instead is dread, dressed up (if you're lucky) as a nine-to-five sentence with no end date—just enough to keep us afloat, never enough to thrive. One emergency away from disaster.

The middle class wasn’t just squeezed. It was gutted.

And those of us trying to stay upright in its ghost are now expected to be grateful for the crumbs we’re tossed. Meanwhile, the wealth gap grows wider than ever, and the people hoarding billions tell us our inability to make ends meet is somehow our fault. That we’re lazy. That we need to budget better. That avocado toast is the issue.

But it’s not just the billionaires. Or even the millionaires. Or the CEOs.

It’s the entire system, playing chess with our lives.

Every time someone asks, “Where are you going on vacation?” and your honest answer is “It’s more of a staycation,” you feel it. Too poor to even escape for a moment. Too tired to pretend.

We’re the modern-day peasants. Not in name—but in truth.

We trade most of our waking hours for barely enough to cover the basics. We measure our worth in productivity. We wear burnout like a badge of honor.

And worst of all—we’re told this is normal. Expected.

Just how life works now.

But it shouldn’t be.

A job shouldn’t consume your life.

You shouldn’t have to choose between rest and rent.

We deserve joy. We deserve time. We deserve purpose—not just survival.

We deserve freedom that doesn’t come with an asterisk or a price tag.

Work-life balance isn’t a luxury—it’s a right.

And we have to stop accepting a system that robs us of it.

I don’t have all the answers.

But I do know this: the first step is refusing to pretend this is okay.

Refusing to call this “life” when it’s just a slow kind of drowning.

We deserve better. And we’re not alone in this.

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It’s one of the many reasons I founded Nova Imperium.

This isn’t a get-rich-quick scheme. I’m tired. Tired of working hard and having nothing to show for it.

Over the last few years, I took care of my grandmother before she passed. She was 95 years old. An old farm girl with the work ethic and faith of a saint.

My grandfather passed away when my dad was just 18. Back then, my dad had to be on her bank accounts—because women weren’t allowed to have their own. But Grandma lived in and cared for the same house until she was 90. She did everything—plumbing, electrical, you name it. She was a force.

Her knees deteriorated over time, so she adapted. She used her arms to pull herself up. Canes to keep moving. She sat down and scooted to get down the stairs to the laundry room. She wouldn’t let anyone help—because she didn’t want to feel like a burden.

Years earlier, she and her sister had sold the family farm and Grandma saved and invested what she could. In 2020, she was outside spraying for ants when she tripped and broke both wrists trying to catch herself. After that, she was in and out of facilities but never fully regained her ability to walk.

One facility was $9,000 a month. It was a glorified hospital room—with a window view of a cemetery.

My parents tried to find her a better place, but my dad’s heart was failing and required more care. My mom was balancing his health and Grandma’s finances—and it took a toll. That’s when I stepped in.

We moved Grandma into a better facility. One-bedroom apartment style, wheelchair-friendly, with a view of a field. She got to bring her furniture and we recreated her living room exactly the way she had it at home. I helped manage her bills, ordered supplies, and visited her a few times a week.

But Medicare didn’t cover the facility. Or her briefs, her wipes, her bed pads. Her medication still cost over $300/month—with both Part D and a supplemental plan.

She was a child of the Depression. She saved, and never overspent. But rent and supplies added up. She liked where she was, so she made the decision to sell her home.

We held an estate sale and sold the house.

The money? Barely lasted a year.

She worked her butt off her entire life. All she ever wanted was to leave something behind for her kids—so they wouldn’t struggle. But my dad passed away that May. And after that, her health declined quickly. My visits became every other day. Then every day. I skipped dinners with my own family to make sure she was fed and helped into bed.

In August, just a few months after my dad, she passed away.

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I don’t tell you this story for sympathy.

I tell it because I see you. I see the struggle and frustration on so many faces. And as sad as it is to say—my grandma was more fortunate than most.

She had a farm to sell. That gave her a chance.

But most seniors don’t have that. Most Americans—period—can’t afford $12,000 a month to survive. And if they get their way the MAGA Republicans will pass their Big Beautiful Bill and it will be a death sentence for so many people.

A slow torturous death sentence with missed medications and starvation.

And this is what we call a fair system? In the land of the free?

This is what’s supposed to pass for life?

This is not freedom. This is not living. This is not life.

It’s broken.

My heart breaks for America.

And it’s about damn time we admit it—and do something about it.