Do I Hold Grudges?
I want to say no—I really do. But the truth is, yes. I hold grudges. Not always by choice, not always out in the open, but certain things dig in deep and change the way I see people or situations. They don’t just fade away.
Work is where my grudges seem to grow the fastest. It stings to watch people call out because they drank too much the night before, or casually shrug off responsibilities I’d never dream of ignoring. And while I might still like these people, that bitterness sits with me.
But the grudges that weigh the heaviest aren’t about coworkers. They’re about the company itself.
Last year, a single decision changed everything: they added another person to my department. My income dropped from over $80,000 to $56,000. On paper, it still looks fine—“good money.” But in reality, it kept me in a higher tax bracket while I was still making less money. Less money, more struggle.
And that was the hardest part: before this, my family thrived. We weren’t rich, but our bills were covered, and there was even room to save. We had breathing space. For the first time in my life, I felt like we were building something stable. And then, almost overnight, it was gone.
With another person siphoning the same pool of business, we drowned. Maxed-out credit cards. Selling things from our home just to scrape by. Then the slow season hit. My income plummeted to $2,000 a month. And because I “made too much,” we didn’t qualify for help. Same tax bracket, just smaller checks.
By January, I was on the brink of losing my home.
I begged for hours, for pay, for any kind of support. My manager brushed me off with, “Just close more business.” I didn’t know it then, but he was trying to get rid of me.
When the assistant manager role opened—a guaranteed $1,200 more a month—I applied. I wasn’t even granted a real interview. His reasoning?
“You’re too much of a bad-ass bitch to be someone’s bitch. Assistant managers don’t move up in this company.”
I was stunned. This man had been here less than a year and had already gutted the store’s culture, firing people left and right.
Then, one night, as my husband told me, “He goes or you go,” my phone buzzed. A company email. He’d been fired.
Relief, yes—but also resentment. Because the damage was done. We were thousands behind on our mortgage, clinging to survival. A coworker—an absolute saint—loaned us the money to save our home. I can still remember the way I collapsed when I realized we’d make it through that month.
A new manager came in, saw the mess, and asked why my once-thriving department had collapsed. I told her the truth: there wasn’t enough business for two full-timers. She restructured the schedule, and slowly, my income returned.
My anger eased—but not completely.
Later, when the assistant manager position opened again, I tried once more. I applied at two locations: one at the store where I still work, and another closer to home.
The interview at my store went well—I felt heard and respected.
The other one? Humiliating. I was told flat-out, “I don’t know why you’re here.” The manager spent the entire time talking about himself and made it clear he’d already chosen someone else. I withdrew my application after that.
What made the whole process sting even more was knowing that every choice I made about applying—or not—was tied to survival. Same tax bracket, just smaller checks. Every missed opportunity, every closed door, felt like one more shove toward drowning.
I didn’t get the role at my store either. Officially, it was because the other candidate lived closer. But the truth trickled down to me later:
“You’re too good at your department to ever be permitted to leave it for management.”
It was meant as a compliment. But it landed like a slap.
So, do I hold grudges? Yes. Against the people and the system that put my family on the edge of losing everything. Against the culture that rewards mediocrity while punishing loyalty.
But here’s the thing: maybe those grudges are also fuel. Maybe holding on to them is what keeps me fighting, pushing, and refusing to settle. Because I know what it feels like to be broken down to the numbers on a bill—and I never want to be there again.
At the same time, I’m thankful for what I do have: a home that was saved, kids who are fed, and the chance to rebuild when I thought everything was lost. Those blessings matter more than the bitterness, even if the bitterness never fully fades.
The truth is, we all hold grudges. We don’t always want to, and sometimes they’re small enough to brush off. But when the things you care about—your family, your security, your very survival—are on the line, it’s not so easy to just let go. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it just means we cared enough to fight for what mattered.
Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
The Overbooked Life 
Leave a comment