What a Screw Taught Me About Not Giving Up on Myself

There was a day during the renovation of my new home that I’ll never forget, not because it was triumphant or polished, but because it broke me open in the most unexpected way.

I had decided to sand and paint the window frames in the dining room. It seemed simple enough. I was ready, determined, and full of that quiet kind of courage that comes when you’re trying to rebuild your life with your own two hands. What stood between me and the job was a curtain rail, fixed in place with rusted screws that refused to budge.

I tried once. Then again. My hands slipped. The screwdriver clicked against metal and slipped off the grooves. I breathed hard through clenched teeth. I knew the task shouldn’t be this difficult. I knew I was capable. I knew this was supposed to be a small step in a long project, just one more thing to tick off. Yet there I was, frozen, face hot, eyes burning, feeling the very particular kind of anger that only comes when you hit your edge and realise you are the only one there to meet it.

Tears came quickly, unexpected and full-bodied. This wasn’t just about a curtain rail. This was about every time I had relied on someone else to do what I now had to do alone. It was about the quiet ache of separation, of facing things I didn’t want to face, of trying to fix and hold and create a life while the old one fell away.

For a moment, I gave up.I dropped the screwdriver, wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve, and sat down hard on the dusty floor. It felt easier to stop. So much of my life had been shaped by making things easier for others; taking the path of least resistance, biting my tongue, folding myself smaller to keep the peace. That same impulse whispered to me now: Leave it. Wait. Ask someone else.

There was a silence in that room, not just around me but inside me too. A silence where something shifted.

I stood up. I put on my "Powerful" playlist on Spotify. It's filled with "F-You" songs, women's empowerment songs, and songs with meaning for me. This time, I tried a different tool. I looked again at the screw with a different kind of focus, not urgency, but resolve. It still wouldn’t move. I cried again, this time with rage thick in my throat. I gritted my teeth, changed the angle, and tried leverage. Then—finally—one turn. Just one. The tiniest movement, but it was everything.

That screw, which had refused to budge through force, yielded to persistence. It didn’t give in easily, but it gave in eventually. So did the others. The rail came down. I could see the window frames again. I could begin the work I had meant to do all along.

That day taught me something I hadn’t quite claimed until then: I do not need a man to do this for me. I do not need someone stronger, louder, or more experienced to make the next move possible. I am the one who shows up. I am the one who gets back up. I am the one who refuses to give up on herself.

There was a version of me who would have stopped at the first sign of resistance. She believed things were easier when you let them stay the same. She was taught that trying too hard only invited conflict, and conflict was unsafe. She kept herself small and agreeable, and still.

I am not her anymore.

Renovating this home has been its own kind of healing. It has held my tears in corners no one else will ever see. It has taken my frustration, my doubt, my fury, and turned it into colour, shape, and change. Every nail hammered, every wall sanded, every frame painted has been a reclaiming—not just of a space, but of a woman determined to build something that is finally, truly, hers.

This isn’t about a curtain rail. It never was.

It’s about refusing to leave yourself stuck.