i was stupid to follow my dreams

I have to admit something…I feel so fucking stupid right now.

It’s taken me so long to even say that out loud — to admit how stupid and fucked I feel. I took this massive leap of faith to follow my dreams, just to end up here, crying and writing in a room in Brazil. I feel stupid. Stupid that my business failed, or at least, it feels like it did. Stupid for thinking I could be someone who inspires others to live their dreams. As if anyone’s even listening. Stupid for investing in a business coach who took my money and left me emptier than before. They all say investments come back…so where the fuck is it? Where is the return?

I feel stupid for leaving behind my life in Canada, for chasing some abstract version of freedom. I really did think I was doing the right thing. That if I kept believing — kept aligning my actions with my beliefs — the universe would just carry me the rest of the way. That’s what everyone tells you, right? Keep believing. Keep manifesting. Keep showing up. Well, I showed up. I believed. And now I’m here, bed-rotting in Brazil. That’s the reality. No curated post can fix this.

I deactivated my Instagram. I felt like I was performing too much. Trying to show everyone I had “made it.” Look guys! I conquered homelessness. I’m traveling now. But no one really cared. Maybe two people, at most, genuinely give a fuck about me. Everyone else just wants something. My half-sister constantly asks me for money as if I have it — never once asking if I’m okay out here by myself. My other sister? She’s never asked how I’m doing. Not once. Maybe that’s just deeper family trauma I’m not ready to unpack right now.

I crave love. Not romance — just love. Just someone saying, “You’ve come so far, I see you.” But instead, I feel like I’m begging for that reminder. Even with those two people who care — is it selfish of me to say “only two” when some people have no one? And yet… I still feel like I can’t give my all. Not to them. Not to me.

Solo travel is supposed to change you — and fuck, it has. But I don’t know why I thought things would fall into place more easily. Maybe they have, and I’m just too used to resistance to recognize it. I still carry this part of me that feels like a failure. Like I’m watching everyone else live their lives while I’m stuck trying to piece mine together like a puzzle. I reach for moments, like fragments, thinking, This piece, I need this piece, but everyone else seems to have their people — someone to cuddle with, someone to come home to. And me? I’m here. Alone.

And I used to love being alone. Still do. I value it deeply. But sometimes, I wish I could duplicate myself, just so I could hold me. Love me in the way I’m so deprived of.

Maybe I am selfish for feeling this way. I know. I’m just the tired older daughter. The one who’s always fighting. Who’s always been fighting. I didn’t even mean to write this. I was going to write about figuring out how to make money, because, quite literally, I have none, but something else came through. It always does. The words rise like static in my bones, and I run to my laptop, possessed. I begin writing one thing, and something else entirely bleeds out. It’s spiritual. A dance. A ritual. A language I don’t understand until the very end.

And now I sit here, again, asking: What the fuck do I do?

I took this leap over a year ago. I said yes to my dream. I decided I’d travel and write stories, even though I didn’t know how. After being homeless in 2021, I finally got my dream apartment. I had a stable job, one that spiked my anxiety and triggered my C-PTSD so badly, I started having seizures again. I had one at work. Tried to stay, because everyone worships “stability,” right? And I needed to survive.

I was juggling full-time school with a full-time job. Alone. No family, no friends to stay with. Every bill on me. Life isn’t cheap. I tried. I really did. So when I leaped, it wasn’t reckless…it was sacred. I had no savings. Just a dream. Just a bathtub ritual after quitting that job. And then, somehow, I was here. Brazil.

I gave up everything to live the life I used to dream about. So why do I feel like I’m crashing?

Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe things haven’t crashed, but it feels like I’m at rock bottom again. No money. Just vibes. Just long nights of aching. And I know, I make friends slowly. Intentionally. The connections I’ve made while traveling have been divine. Soul ties. But I meet them in one country, and then they vanish into another. Maybe this is adulthood. Maybe this is what no one told me. Fucking adulthood. I want a guidebook. A cheat sheet perhaps?

I don’t know what to do.

I’ve come so far, only to feel like I have nothing. I feel like nothing. Like I’m missing something essential. Am I lacking? I paused my business because it wasn’t bringing in revenue. And I get it, business is hard. But I was good. I had glowing reviews. People loved working with me. Still, my bank account went negative. And that coach? Didn’t help. Just took money I wish I still had. Hindsight is a bitter ghost.

Sure, the “inner work” changed me. But did I need to go broke for that? Now I’m in a hostel in Brazil, volunteering. And I am grateful. Truly. This opportunity felt like divine intervention. But still, I’m sad. I need to feel that. To grieve the parts that died along the way.

Sometimes I grow envious. What do others have that I don’t? Did I miss the secret lecture on how to monetize your story? Because I am inspired by myself. I just don’t know if I’m articulating it right. Sharing it right. Why does it feel like no one hears me? My story is wild. Beautiful. Brave. Why am I being ignored?

Should I make a GoFundMe? Pivot again? I know I want to shift my business — I just don’t know what into yet. This lack of clarity might just be fear. Fear of making the wrong choice again. But are there even wrong choices?

If the universe was done with me, would I have made it this far on my almost 10-month journey? I’ve been protected. I know I have. And yet… I feel like shit. What do I do now?

Was I stupid for following my dreams?

What is to come of me next?

I don’t know what my next move is. I don’t know if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be — or if I’m just scared.

I just… don’t know.