The toilet effect—that's the only description that comes to mind when I think about how my life spiraled from a life to mere existence, reduced to involuntary breaths that feel as heavy as a 45-pound dumbbell pressing against my chest.

March 10, 2023—746 days of slipping deeper into the pits of hell, each day dragging me further down. The loss of my job. Unlike many, I didn’t take time off. I launched into action, applying immediately, cautiously yet confidently. I had enough to last a year, and based on my last job cycle, where I had three offers to decide from, I estimated four months—tops. With my unique skill set in cell/gene therapy, rare and rare pediatric disease, and oncology, I was prepared for the search. I had hope.

The job market was flooded with openings, and pharmaceutical and biotech companies seemed endless. I tackled applications daily, treating it like a full-time job. Morning coffee while watching the sunrise, seeing my daughter off to school, and then diving in.

To fill in gaps, I networked, took courses, gained certifications, and joined innovation networks. I learned artificial intelligence and machine learning, built a full-cycle clinical trial lifecycle application using AI/ML. I was energized, innovating, developing, still applying. Yet, no responses. The silence was deafening.

I began sending test emails, calling my own phone repeatedly to confirm it was working. I revised my CV, paid for ATS checkers, took every suggestion to “beat the system.” But every response circled back to my CV—not my experience, not my knowledge, not my expertise. Just how I needed to outmaneuver a program.

Recruiters flooded my inbox, requesting my CV, promising opportunities. Yet when they returned, there were no jobs—just an upsell for resume services. The cost of living soared. My year-long safety net vanished. I cut expenses, lost my cell phone, lost my car. I was on my knees. Rejection emails filled my inbox overnight, conditioning me to brace myself every morning.

Then, even the rejections stopped. Silence. Months of nothing. My baseline became panic and anxiety. The few interviews that trickled in were scams—free consultations, unpaid work in exchange for “future compensation.” Referrals from friends and colleagues led nowhere. Just echoes in the void.

Keeping the lights on became a desperate juggling act. Keeping food on the table became a battle, skipping meals so my daughter could eat. Utilities turned into luxuries, each month a new struggle—gas or electricity, water or internet. The bank account teetered on empty, overdraft notices arriving more frequently than interview invitations. Every decision boiled down to survival. 

Each grocery store trip was filled with dread, counting every dollar, putting back necessities because there simply wasn’t enough. Even with government assistance applications, the waitlists stretched endlessly, and the approvals never came. The fridge became emptier, the nights became colder, and every single day became a test of endurance.

My daughter and I leaned on the kindness of others. But kindness, I’ve learned, has an expiration date. The gossip started. Accusations flew. I wasn’t doing enough. As if submitting over 3,000 applications to 479 companies wasn’t enough. As if I hadn’t applied to everything from retail to customer service, willing to take anything—only to be ignored.

Two years in, and the hole has never felt deeper. My body bears the weight of relentless stress. The ambulance ride to the hospital, the arrhythmia, the heart disease—constant reminders that my body is just as fragile as my life. 

Now, I wait for the eviction verdict, knowing full well how this ends. I think about the two women I saw packing a single bag, heading to a shelter, and how I tried to comfort them. I know now that nothing I said could have made it easier. Because for me, there is nothing left to say. 

There is so much going on in the world—wars, disasters, unimaginable suffering—that my monumental pain and struggle are just that to me. They feel insurmountable in my reality, but in comparison to the suffering of others, they pale. And yet, pain is pain. Struggle is struggle. And survival, no matter where or who you are, is never guaranteed.