Life is hard sometimes, but is it, really? I’m a 36-year-old white woman living in an upscale suburb of a major metropolitan city. I have a good job. I have a reliable car. I have a healthy child. I have my own health. I can afford good food, wholesome food. Shit, I can afford a $5 cup of espresso every morning. If I lost everything tomorrow, I could move back to Denver and live with my parents. We wouldn’t end up on the streets.

And I say life is hard. My life is not hard.

But life can feel hard because it’s constant. Relentless. There’s always something to take care of, to pay for, to contest, to follow up on. Maybe “hard” is the wrong word. Annoying, though. Trying. Constant. Constant. Constant.