You used to stress over extras.
New shoes.
Nice dinners.
Vacation plans you thought were tight,
but manageable.

Now you count grocery totals like they’re holy.
Like if you do it right—
if you get it exactly right—
maybe you’ll get through this week without something breaking.

You put things back.
Items you need,
but not as much as rent.
You weigh oranges like they’re gold.
You double check coupons like they’re lifelines.

And no one knows—
no one sees—
how hard you cried in the cereal aisle.

Because it wasn’t just the price.
It was the weight.
Of holding it together.
Of pretending you’re fine.
Of making choices that never used to be choices.

You stood there,
next to bright boxes and cartoon mascots,
and felt like a failure.
Because food became math.
Because survival became shame.

And the world keeps spinning.
People still post their takeout.
Their shopping hauls.
Their effortless abundance.

And you feel small.

Because you’re not starving.
But you’re barely not.
Because you still smile at the cashier.
Still say “I’m good” when asked.
Still hide the panic
that creeps in every time the scanner beeps.

You never thought it would be this hard.
Never imagined this version of adulthood.
Where a grocery trip feels like a test you’re always one dollar away from failing.

But you go anyway.
You try.
Because you have to.

Even when it breaks you
in the cereal aisle.