After I came back to Toronto in 2019, I landed this Sexton job at an Anglican church — and fam, it was actually vibes. The pay wasn’t legendary, the benefits weren’t saving lives, and the commute wasn’t exactly a quick zip, but the work was calm, meaningful, and the people? Patterned. Smart, funny, secular as hell for church folk, and full of stories. Yeah, there was the usual old-institution drama — whispers in the hallways, nostalgia for busier pews and fatter bank accounts — but day to day? Mandem actually enjoyed being there. I felt useful. I felt respected. I felt human.

And that’s rare. If I needed to pick up my daughter? Safe. If I was sick? Safe. If life just kicked me in the neck that week? Still safe. And because they cared, I cared. That’s the part capitalism never understands: people work better when they aren’t treated like trash.

Then COVID hit, doors closed, and boom — laid off. But fine, EI came through, and when things reopened, they brought me back part-time. That was a blessing, because my daughter was going through it at home and my mom was already picking up more than she should’ve. Part-time meant I could be present. And now that she’s gone, I’m thankful for every one of those hours I didn’t spend mopping a hallway somewhere else.

My mom’s speech started slipping for a year before anything was diagnosed. Life kept moving, but slower, heavier. I’d work, she’d help with school drop-offs, and I’d handle the calls she physically couldn’t anymore. And then ALS hit the diagnosis sheet, and everything went from slow burn to warp speed. One night my daughter woke me up saying Grams couldn’t breathe. Four hours later, tracheostomy. Life didn’t ask permission. It just burned it down and kept walking.

And through all that smoke, the Church had my back. Every time I needed to run, they covered. Every time I dipped to deal with a crisis, they held it down. But winter rolled in, snow needed clearing before sunrise, and I couldn’t guarantee mornings anymore. They didn’t want to — I could tell — but they had to let me go. That one stung. Not because of “job loss,” but because it was the last stable corner of my life before everything cracked open.

Before they let me go, I called EI to confirm I’d qualify. “No issues,” they said. Cool. Applied. Denied. And since then? Ontario Works. Mandem budgeting like it’s a survival sport. Stretching pennies until they tap out. Frugal ’til it hurts.

I miss that job heavy. I miss working somewhere that wasn’t chaos, wasn’t corporate nonsense, wasn’t another conveyor belt for burnout. Everything now is “weekends, late nights, fast-paced environment, bring your A-game for F-pay.” Big companies act like everyone’s 22 with unlimited energy and no dependents. I’m washed, bro. And honest enough to admit it.

So here I am — trying to keep my kid steady, missing my mom, and learning to be better at being poor because the world refuses to be better at being fair.