I woke up the next morning to the same ceiling, the same peeling paint, the same cold draft from the cracked window. My back screamed from another night on the thin mattress, and my hands—calloused and stiff—ached before I even moved them.

I was still here.

Still broke. Still tired. Still in the same one-room place next to the tracks where the noise never stops. Nothing had changed overnight. No sudden luck. No promotion. No quiet voice saying “You’ve made it.”

But I was breathing.

The alarm hadn’t even gone off yet, but my body knew. Shift starts at 6. Same machine. Same noise. Same sweat. Same foreman barking like I owe him my soul for the crumbs he calls pay.

I sat up, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and stared at the floor for a long minute. Part of me hoped I’d feel different this morning. But I didn’t. I was still low on the chain. Still invisible in a city that only sees men in suits or trouble on the news.

But I woke up. That meant something.

Because if I’m still here, then my work’s not done. Maybe not the work that gets recognized. Maybe not the kind that makes headlines or earns applause. But it’s work that matters.

Showing up. Grinding. Feeding the machine that feeds the world. Providing what little I can for the people who count on me—even if the world doesn’t count me at all.

So I stood up. Pulled on my boots. My back complained, my knees popped, but I didn’t sit back down.

Still here.

Still standing.

And today, that’s enough.