I Found Myself

Chapter 6: Dead Sparks

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Graduating high school should have been a triumphant moment—a rite of passage celebrated with friends and family, marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. But for me, it felt hollow. I walked across the stage in my cap and gown, clutching my diploma while feeling like an imposter in my own life.

I wasn't surrounded by a close-knit group of friends who were cheering me on. Instead, I had two temporary friends, acquaintances more than anything, who treated graduation like a joke. They skipped classes and assignments, laughing off the consequences while I pushed myself to stay on track. I remember glancing at them in the stands, not the floor, during the ceremony, their laughter breaking through the solemnity of the event, and feeling a sharp pang of loneliness.

Part of me wondered if I'd even made the right decision to stay friends with them. They didn't take life seriously, and I often felt like the odd one out—too serious, too focused. But at the time, I didn't have many options. High school wasn't exactly a haven of deep connections for me, and even as I moved on to the next chapter of my life, I carried that loneliness with me.

After graduation, I knew I needed a plan. While some of my classmates were heading to four-year universities, I decided to take a different path. I enrolled in a welding program at the local technical college. It was a dream I'd discovered in my teens. It was practical. Welding was a skill that could lead to steady work, and that's what I needed—a foundation, something to build a life on.

The welding program was intense. The sound of metal grinding against metal, the smell of molten steel, and the heat of the torches became my new reality. It was challenging, both physically and mentally, but I thrived in that environment. I poured myself into every project, determined to prove to myself and everyone else that I could succeed, despite of my gender.

Graduating at the top of my class was a moment I'll never forget. It wasn't just an academic achievement—it was validation. For the first time, I felt like I had carved out a space for myself, like I was capable of excelling at something tangible. Welding gave me confidence I hadn't known I was capable of.

Even more importantly, college introduced me to people who became a genuine support system. My classmates weren't just people I shared a workshop with; they were friends who understood the grind and encouraged me to keep going. We bonded over late nights, tough projects, and the shared satisfaction of mastering a difficult trade. They reminded me that I didn't have to go through life feeling alone—that there were people out there who could and would lift me up.

After finishing my program, I landed my first real job at a smokehouse company that manufactured commercial smokers for businesses like Slim Jim. Walking into that job was exciting and intimidating. I was ready to prove myself, but not everyone was ready to give me a chance.

The HR lady who handled my interview hesitated when she saw me. I'll never forget the look she gave me—a mix of doubt and disapproval. At the time, I had several facial piercings: an eyebrow ring, a septum piercing, and snake bites.

"I don't know about this," she said, her words heavy with judgment as she turned to my future boss.

My mom had always called me her "human pincushion," half-jokingly, half-critically. To her, the piercings were just a phase—something I'd grow out of eventually. To me, they were more than decoration. They were small acts of rebellion, expressions of identity in a world that constantly tried to box me in.

Despite the HR lady's reservations, I got the job. It was my first taste of professional life, and I worked hard to prove that I belonged there. I took pride in my work, knowing that the smokers we built would be used all over the country. For a year, I honed my skills, learned the ins and outs of the trade, and began to envision a stable future.

But then the world turned upside down. COVID-19 swept through the globe, and everything changed. The state stepped in, and I was reassigned to make medical equipment as part of the pandemic response.

The work was brutal. Twelve-hour shifts, six days a week. As a 20-year-old, I wasn't prepared for the physical and emotional toll it would take. The constant pressure to produce, the endless assembly lines, and the knowledge that what we were making could mean the difference between life and death—it all weighed on me.

There were moments during those shifts when I felt like a machine myself. The repetitive motions, the unrelenting pace, and the exhaustion blurred the days together. It felt like I was running on autopilot, pushing through each hour without pause. I told myself it was worth it—that I was contributing to something bigger than myself. But as the weeks turned into months, the burnout hit me like a freight train.

Outside of work, my personal life was falling apart. My boyfriend at the time spent every evening glued to his headset, playing games with his friends. No matter how many times I asked for just one night—one evening where he'd choose me over his games—it never happened.

I was exhausted, lonely, and desperate for connection. I wanted someone to acknowledge the weight I was carrying, to remind me that I wasn't invisible. But instead of support, I was met with indifference.

The relationship crumbled under the strain. I finally decided to leave him, but in my desperation for validation, I made a choice that still haunts me. At the very end of our relationship, I cheated on him. It wasn't planned, and it wasn't with a stranger. It was with a friend of four years—someone who had been there for me in ways my boyfriend hadn't.

At the time, it felt like an escape. But in reality, it was a moment of weakness that only added to the chaos in my life. The guilt was overwhelming, and I spiraled into a mental and emotional free fall.

Bills piled up, unpaid and looming like storm clouds. The job that had once felt like an achievement now felt like a burden. I was stuck in a cycle of stress, regret, and exhaustion, and I couldn't see a way out.

Looking back, this chapter of my life feels like a collision of triumph and failure, of growth and mistakes. I learned so much during those years—about resilience, about the importance of self-care, and about the power of choice.

Welding had given me confidence, but it had also pushed me to my limits. My relationships had taught me what I needed and deserved, even if I hadn't always made the right decisions. And the people I met along the way—whether in college, at work, or in my personal life—had shown me that connection and understanding were out there, even if they were fleeting.

This chapter wasn't clean or easy, but it was real. And in its messy, complicated way, it shaped the person I was becoming.