By
·
3 minute read
“I’m Fucked”: The Moment Everything Fell Apart
By Nick Lerma
Let me take you back to a version of me that thought he had it all figured out.
I had a two-story house with palm trees and a white picket fence in Ventura, California—72 degrees year-round. I lived with my girlfriend of over five years, our two-year-old daughter, and we just got a pug puppy. I was wrapping up my A.S. in Social Media Marketing at Ventura College. I had just accepted the marketing manager job at a new business unit within the company I’d worked at for four years. I was checking off my vision board goals one by one.
Physically, I was maintaining decent shape. Mentally, I was driven and ambitious. Financially, I had a 401(k), a 529 plan for my daughter, and more stability than ever. I believed I was on track for marriage, maybe a second kid, and finally buying a home.
But life doesn’t ask permission to implode.
The Cracks Begin
The breakup hit first. Suddenly, I was packing up everything I knew and leaving for Arizona, cashing out my 401(k) to survive.
A new city. No job. No network. It was early December, and I didn’t consider that companies don’t really hire at the end of the year. My phone stayed silent. And then there was my knee. What started as a small click during workouts turned into something more serious. One day, while practicing a golf swing in the bathroom mirror, I felt a pop that dropped me to the floor.
Still, I kept telling myself: I’ll figure it out. I always do.
I clung to workouts, podcasts, and job boards. I convinced myself that the cheap gas and low cost of living in Arizona would make this an easy rebuild. I thought if I stayed in shape and looked productive, it would all turn around. I even thought I might win my family back.
But under the surface? I was unraveling.
The Collapse
The final blow came after I interviewed for a job my neighbor helped me get. Everything looked good until an MRI on my knee revealed I needed surgery. I emailed HR, hoping to delay my start date by a few weeks.
Their reply was immediate and final: You’ll need to reapply after you’re medically cleared.
That was it. No job. No money. No plan.
I was sitting in my mom’s living room, a golf tournament murmuring in the background, when I read that email. My stomach dropped like a cop had pulled up behind me. The TV felt like it was 50 yards away. Everything went silent. My limbs got heavy. My brain froze.
My checking account had just hit $0. My car payment, insurance, and phone bill were due. Without a phone, how would anyone even call me back? A judge was going to see me as a broke, unemployed dad. My car—the last shred of independence I had—was going to get repossessed.
That’s when it hit me.
I’m fucked.
The Spiral
I didn’t want to admit it. I blamed my mom for telling me to move to Arizona. I blamed myself for being so naive, for taking the promotion, for trying to fix the wrong things in the wrong order.
I wasn’t drinking anymore, so I numbed myself with Instagram, Reddit, anything to avoid the pit in my stomach. I couldn't even form a full thought. My brain was a tornado of worst-case scenarios.
But none of it changed the truth:
I was fucked because I wasn't accepting responsibility for things in life.
The Shift
The moment of truth didn’t come with a bang—it came on a quiet drive down the 303 freeway, White Tank Mountains in the distance.
When I got home, my mom looked at me differently. Not like her son, but like someone who was about to break.
She sat down with me and said softly, “This is going to break you if you let it.” Then she started to cry.
For the first time in a long time, I felt calm. She didn’t say "Fix it." She said, "Don’t let it break you." And that gave me permission to be broken, but not stay broken.
I started telling myself, over and over:
Don’t let this break you.
The Reflection
I wish someone had told me earlier what my therapist eventually did: “Thoughts are not facts.”
It sounds simple, but it’s everything. Thoughts create emotions. Emotions create actions. If you think you’re fucked, you feel hopeless, and you spiral.
I want you to know that the only thing that changed was the story I was telling myself. Once I shifted to a growth mindset—even the smallest shift—I started to crawl out.
That’s why I’m sharing this—not for sympathy, but for solidarity.
Because someone out there is sitting in their own version of that living room, feeling the silence after the collapse, wondering if it’s all over.
If that’s you, here’s what I’ve learned:
The first step out isn’t fixing everything. It’s owning where you are—without excuses, without blame.
Say it out loud if you need to: “I’m fucked.”
Then say the part that matters more: “And I’m responsible for what I do next.”