Last night, I exploded.

I threw a chair.
I slammed dishes.
All of it—right in front of my children.

I… exploded.

Once again, I let my children Mother get to me, to the point where I lost control. And what triggered it? Mac and cheese.

Lately, the girls and I have been watching Win or Lose on Disney+. They love it, but—like Bluey—I think it’s a show just as much for adults. Episode 8 hit me differently. Dan, the coach’s father and Laurie’s grandfather… I won’t spoil it, but that episode? That one made me feel seen.

There came a moment last night where I became a storm in my own house.
The girls moved on quickly—laughing, playing—but I stayed stuck in my own darkness.
“The bear is back in his cave.”

And worse… they heard me say something I’ve always told them never to say.
They heard me tell their mother: “I hate you.”
I’ve told them hate is a word you don’t carry, a feeling you don’t feed. And there I was, feeding it.

I let the worst version of myself step forward.

Almost a month and a half ago, I lost my job. Five years. Gone. I hadn’t been let go from anything since working back at Peachtree Mall in Georgia. I thought it was a routine one-on-one. At worst, maybe I’d be assigned a tricky network escalation or a strange onboarding oversight. But no—I was let go.

It felt like a punch in the mouth.
I barely remember their explanation.
Something about how good I am with networking issues, but it came off as, “You’re good at networking… but what else?”
But that is my field. That’s my strength.

When it’s a billing issue, I send it to billing.
When it’s a network issue, they come to me.
That was my lane—and I excelled in it.

That’s when I started to feel like Dan. Or maybe I’ve always been him.
Holding it all in.
Bottling every storm.
Carrying everything for everyone—and leaving nothing for myself.

I didn’t even tell my 6-year-old I lost my job until recently. She used to say she wanted to work with me one day. But then she asked:
“Daddy, are you still working?”
It was quiet. Curious. Innocent.
And it broke something in me.
I didn’t think she noticed. But kids always notice.

Last night, her mother and I got into it over dinner.
She thought I’d just been playing video games all day because when she called, I happened to be playing. But what she didn’t see was everything I did before that—
Going to the gym.
Submitting job applications.
Checking emails.
Fighting the silence of no responses but still keeping my chin up.

I asked her to help with dinner—chicken parm sliders and mac and cheese. I told her I’d take the kids outside to play so the little one wouldn’t keep asking for her “Baba.” When we came back in, only the sliders were made. She got upset that the mac and cheese wasn’t done.

I was laying on the couch—exhausted from chasing the girls around outside—and she got mad.

And in that moment, despite all I’ve done, despite doing what I can with the money I had left—even helping her get a new gaming computer—she called me out for not having a job.

And I exploded.

Now today, she’s telling me I need to find another place soon.

All I could say was: “Okay.”
Because what else can I say?

Since I’ve been here, I’ve carried the load. And the moment I’m unable to, I’m made out that I’m lazy. I’m questioned about finding work. I’m treated like a burden.

And it hurts.
It hurts so much.

Because how am I supposed to feel?
What am I supposed to do?
All I know how to do is keep my head up, push forward, and search for the lesson in the pain.

But right now, it’s hard. Really hard.