I Don't Know If We Survive This
I won’t dress it up. Tariffs are looming. Plants might close. The political back-and-forth is deafening. The ground under my feet doesn’t feel steady anymore.
This isn’t the kind of message I ever wanted to send.
But here we are.
Life throws punches, and sometimes, they land square in the gut.
You’ve seen the headlines.
A trade war. Tensions boiling over.
And for someone like me, someone who’s spent years working in auto assembly, this isn’t just a news story. It’s a wrecking ball swinging straight at my paycheck, my plans, my sense of security.
I won’t dress it up. Tariffs are looming. Plants might close. The political back-and-forth is deafening. The ground under my feet doesn’t feel steady anymore.
Four weeks ago, I threw everything into rebranding Healing Texts. I believed in resilience, in the idea that a few words at the right moment could make a difference.
I still do.
But politicians don’t care about hope.
Trade wars, job loss, financial chaos, it’s all piling up.
And now… I don’t know if Healing Texts can survive it.
This was never about polished, empty words. It started from something raw. Loneliness, heartbreak, that sinking fear of struggling in silence.
Every text was a small act of defiance against the weight of it all.
A nudge. A sliver of sun in the storm. A reason to keep pushing forward.
And now, I wonder if I can do the same.
Trade barriers rise.
Politicians throw punches.
The economy sways like a rickety bridge in a storm.
And through it all, one thing stays clear: people need people.
Encouragement matters. Empathy crosses borders.
You proved that.
Every reply, every story, every moment of resilience you shared… it built something real. Something bigger than just texts on a screen.
And now…
Now, things are unraveling. The auto industry stumbles. My job stands on shaky ground. If the plant shuts down, so does my paycheck.
And if that happens, this platform won’t last. Bills come first. Survival comes first.
I hate saying that. Hate knowing some of you wake up looking for these messages. Hate thinking they might stop when you need them most.
If this is the last time I get to say it, then let me say it loud… thank you.
For trusting me with your hardest days. For letting me into your mornings, your messy afternoons, your sleepless nights. For showing up here, open-hearted, again and again.
I don’t take it lightly.
Not one message, not one story, not one moment of honesty you’ve shared. Every word, every struggle, every victory… you made this more than just texts on a screen.
You made it something real.
If these messages ever felt like a rope to hold onto, even for a second, then it was all worth it.
If the worst happens, if I have to shut this down, know this…
You’re not left empty-handed. The messages stay. Sitting in your inbox. Stashed on Substack. Waiting. A reminder of how much you’ve already fought through. And how much fight you still have left.
But maybe, just maybe, the chaos eases. A last-minute twist, a break in the clouds. If that happens, if my job holds, then I’ll be back.
Stronger. Louder.
Still here, sending out whatever scraps of light I can.
Because if we make it through this, you better believe we’re celebrating.
You.
Yes, you.
You’ve been the shield, the force that kept this thing standing, the reason these words ever found their way past a screen and into something real.
You held the light when it flickered.
And somehow, against all odds, it burned brighter.
Tomorrow is a question mark. The unknown looms, indifferent and unpredictable. But if you take one thing with you, let it be this: hope isn’t fragile. It sneaks through the wreckage. Takes root in the ruins. Grows where nothing should.
So, whatever comes next, walk with that.
And know this: I see you. I appreciate you. Always.
With gratitude and a heavy heart,
—Ryan Puusaari