God, it's 4 in the morning and I can't sleep. My body is restless, even though you told it to rest. Yesterday, I went to serve. I went to help. And in one awkward, stupid movement getting up from a meal, my back seized. The snap, the pain—it was the worst I've felt in years. I ended up on the floor, legs propped up, surrounded by strangers, some of whom were kind enough to help.

I'm grateful it wasn't worse. Grateful for the people who stayed. Grateful that after sleep, I can hobble to the bathroom. But God, the pain is still here. And so is the other pain—the fear.

I am uninsured. The thought of a doctor's visit is a financial break I can't survive right now. The thought of not going, of having no record of this, is its own kind of trap. I was already stretched thin, counting pennies, stressing about how to get to my new shift schedule. I had a plan—fix the bike, make it work. And now? Now I can't even stand up straight. I can't do my job caring for children like this. It wouldn't be right for them, and it wouldn't be safe for me. I've already had to step back, to miss wages I was counting on.

This has happened before. I know the road. I know that even when the worst passes, the lingering can last for months. Months of having to slow down when the world doesn't.

A friend once said to me, "Poverty sucks." It does. It means one injury isn't just a medical event; it's a domino falling on work, on transportation, on stability. It means needing help but hating to ask, because you don't want to be a "charity case." But the truth is, the pieces are right here in front of me. I just need help putting them together. I need a way to get seen, to get a record, to get through this week without losing everything I've been working so hard to hold onto.

I don't know if I'm making it to church today. My body might not let me. But I'm here, in the quiet of this early morning, trying to pray. Trying to trust that even in this, I am held. Trying to believe that help can come in unexpected forms—like the off-duty medical pros in a crowd, or a friend with a true word, or a way forward that I can't see yet.

Please, if you are someone reading this and have been where I am, or if you have a resource, a thought, or just a word of solidarity—I could use it. I'm not looking for a handout. I'm looking for a hand. A way to get from this moment of pain and fear to the next one, where things are a little more stable, a little less scary.

Help me put the pieces together.