This is what I chanted to myself in a loop as I hustled across the lobby of a Long Island City high-rise, then shook my head like Marimar, my abuela’s poodle, after she gets a bath. What kind of asshole talks about herself in the third person, even if it’s in her own head?

That didn’t make my mantra any less true though. I didn’t have bad days, or more specifically I couldn’t afford them. Not while juggling three jobs and managing a seemingly endless stream of family demands. It wasn’t even that I was self-righteous and thought having bad days was beneath me; it was just my way of dealing with the fact that whenever I did have a bad day, I still had to work.

It’s a trick you learn when you can’t have something you really need. You start telling yourself you don’t want it anyway. You reframe, you pivot, you spin. I was really, really good at this particular form of mental gymnastics. Which was why I’d convinced myself I just didn’t have bad days. I allowed myself the occasional “we’ll try again in the morning” days. I could even do “let’s try to focus on the bright side” days...or my go-to “you’re a bad bitch and you can handle this” days.

But never ever a Bad Day.

Bad days implied taking breaks, time off to recharge, and my schedule did not allow for that, which meant I was exhausted. Wrung out down to the marrow of my bones. But hustle culture doesn’t come to a halt just because I’m feeling like a piece of chewed gum stuck to the pavement. That bitch keeps churning like a merry-go-round on steroids and you can either handle your business or get tossed on your ass, with your dreams right alongside you.

So I stayed on, even if some mornings I did it by the skin of my teeth. My dreams were worth losing a little—a lot of—sleep over, and what’s more I was slowly—very slowly—making them come true. Despite the utterly endless grind of the past three years, that thought brought a smile to my face. I was on the cusp of achieving a huge milestone. I just had to get through this morning—or more like the next few weeks, and I’d be there.

“You better hustle, Alba Duarte!” Nico the doorman called as I punched the code for the elevator. When I looked over my shoulder he lifted his wrist, tapping the brand-new Apple Watch he’d gotten from our boss last Christmas.

“I know! I’m going!” My feet responded to the playful urgency in his voice and I jogged in place, making him laugh.

“Dile a la Natasha que le mando saludos!”