Believe me, the last thing I ever thought I’d cry over was a drawer.
But there I was in my bathroom, tugging at the handle with both hands like I was wrestling a bear. My fingers just wouldn’t cooperate. And when it finally popped open, I sat down and cried.
I wasn’t crying over the drawer.
I was crying because I felt like I was losing control of my life.
My hands had always been strong. They helped me braid my daughter’s hair, roll out pie dough, plant tomatoes in springtime. They were part of who I was — capable, self-reliant, proud.
But now, even simple things — like brushing my hair, buttoning a shirt, or twisting off a jar lid — made me wince in pain.
I started avoiding hobbies I loved. I’d even pretend I wasn’t hurting just so my daughter wouldn’t fuss over me.
“Mom, I’ll help,” she’d say gently. And while I was grateful… it stung.
Because every time I had to ask for help, I felt a little more like a burden.
Like I was disappearing.