I’m Doing Everything Right… So Why Does It Still Feel Like I’m Losing?

Series: Doing Everything Right… and Still Losing

Part 1: I’m Doing Everything Right… So Why Does It Still Feel Like I’m Losing?

I passed my G.3.

88%.

Not perfect, but solid. A few months ago, I don’t even know if I would’ve believed I’d get here. Given everything I’ve been dealing with, I should probably feel proud of that.

But I don’t.

It doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like… maintenance. Like I’m barely holding ground instead of actually moving forward.

And that’s the part no one really talks about.

Because on paper, I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

I’m in school.
I’m passing exams.
I’m making decisions that are better for my future.

I even quit my job at Wendy’s.

My last day is next Sunday. My boss had questions.

And I’ll be honest—part of me felt good about that.

Because it meant something I did there actually mattered. Maybe not to everyone. But to someone. And when you’ve spent enough time feeling invisible, that kind of thing hits a little harder than it probably should.

That wasn’t impulsive. That was calculated. That was me finally saying: I can’t keep trading my time for something that’s going nowhere. Minimum wage, no advancement, just burning hours to survive another week.

So I walked away.

Not because I have it all figured out—but because I don’t, and I need to start making decisions that actually move my life forward instead of keeping me stuck.

That should feel like progress.

But my life doesn’t feel like it’s progressing.

It feels like it’s coming apart in other places at the exact same time.

I haven’t had meaningful contact with my kids since Christmas.

Sit with that for a second.

I’m out here trying to rebuild my life, trying to become something stable, something respectable—and at the same time, I feel like I’m losing the people who matter most.

And I don’t even fully understand what’s real anymore.

The goalposts keep moving. The conversations don’t line up. One minute it feels like maybe things are improving, the next minute I’m right back to feeling like I’m completely on the outside.

Like I’m a stranger in my own kids’ lives.

And yeah—I’ve had those thoughts:

Maybe they just don’t want anything to do with me.

I don’t know if that’s true.

But it feels true sometimes. And feelings like that don’t just bounce off you. They stick.

Then there are moments that make everything even more complicated.

My daughter called me upset because she couldn’t get an Uber to cadets.

So I stepped in—like a father does—and tried to figure it out.

And then I find out she’d been using her mom’s Uber account behind her back. Ordering food. Multiple times. No permission.

That’s not okay.

I don’t care what the situation is—that’s not something I’m going to support.

So I told her no.

She could still get there. It would just take longer. It wasn’t about punishment—it was about accountability.

And she lost it.

Told me she’d never talk to me again.
Called me every name you can think of.

And I just sat there, holding that.

Because what am I supposed to do?

Be the “good guy” and ignore it?
Or be the parent and risk pushing her further away?

There’s no clean win there.

Just consequences—either way.

A week later, she calls me again. Needs food. Needs help.

And of course I show up.

Because that’s what I do.

But don’t miss the reality of that cycle.

I’m needed—but not respected.
I’m present—but not really included.
I’m trying—but it never feels like enough.

And while all of this is happening, I’m still trying to build something out of my own life.

I’m studying for my G.2.
I’m trying to line up work.
I’m trying to create stability out of… honestly, not much.

I don’t even have a proper place to live.

I’m sharing space. Constantly adjusting. Constantly compromising.

I hate it.

I hate not having control over my environment.
I hate not being able to provide something better for my kids—even if they were in my life more consistently.
I hate feeling like I’m stuck in between rebuilding and surviving.

It’s exhausting.

And yeah—I know what people will say.

“You’re making progress.”
“One step at a time.”
“Things will come together.”

Maybe.

But that doesn’t change what it feels like right now.

Right now, it feels like I’m doing everything right… and still falling behind.

Like I’m checking all the boxes, but none of it is actually translating into a life that feels stable or secure.

Like I’m rebuilding—but on unstable ground.

And I keep coming back to this question.

Am I actually building this the right way?

Or am I just stacking effort on top of a foundation that isn’t solid yet?

I find myself thinking about that picture—of building on rock versus building on sand.

It’s not just an idea. It’s a warning.

“But anyone who hears my teaching and doesn’t obey it is foolish, like a person who builds a house on sand. When the rains and floods come and the winds beat against that house, it will collapse with a mighty crash.” — Matthew 7:26-27, NLT

Because that’s the part that sticks with me—the collapse doesn’t happen while you’re building. It happens later. When pressure hits. When life tests what you thought was solid.

And that’s what I’m trying to figure out right now.

Am I actually building something that will hold?
Or am I just doing everything right on the surface… while underneath, it’s still not solid?

I think about that passage—about the man who builds his house on the sand. Everything looks fine while he’s building it. It even holds for a while. But when things start to shift, when pressure hits, when storms come—it doesn’t stand.

And I can’t help but ask myself:

Am I building on rock… or am I just hoping the sand holds?

Because right now, it doesn’t feel stable.

And maybe this is just part of it.

Maybe this is what nobody tells you about trying to turn your life around:

You don’t immediately start winning.

You just start losing…
more slowly.
more intentionally.

And you have to learn how to live in that space.

Because quitting isn’t an option anymore.

Even when it feels like nothing is really working yet.

Even when the wins don’t feel like wins.

Even when the people you’re doing it for aren’t in your corner the way you hoped they would be.

You just keep going.

Not because it feels good.

But because going back is no longer acceptable.

And maybe—eventually—that starts to count for something.