I’ve been lugging a stroller, a diaper bag, and my 2-year-old up three flights of stairs for 14 months because our building’s elevator has been “temporarily out of service.”
Today, I saw the yellow tape gone. The doors actually opened. I stepped inside, pressed “1,” and just… lost it. Silent tears. The kind that surprise you.
My toddler looked at me like I was broken. I just kept saying, “Buddy, we get to walk out of the building today. Not up it.”
I know it sounds small. It is small. But for one stupid second, I wasn’t exhausted. I wasn’t a pack mule. I just stood there, riding down, feeling like the universe finally threw me a bone.
I texted my husband: “Elevator works. I sobbed. Don’t tell anyone.” He sent back: “I’m telling everyone. You deserved that ride.”
So here I am. Grateful for a slow, shaky metal box that smells like old pizza. Grateful for a partner who gets it. Grateful that sometimes the bar is on the floor, and somehow, that still feels like winning.
If you’re reading this and you’re running on fumes today, I see you. And I’m hoping your elevator comes soon.