If you drive past our street too fast, you might miss me.
Not because I’m hiding… but because I’ve become part of the ground I work on.
For eight years, my office has been the space beneath cars—dust in my lungs, oil on my hands, and the sound of metal scraping against metal as my daily background music.
Eight years.
That’s longer than some people spend in school. Longer than some friendships last. Long enough for dreams to either grow… or slowly fade.
Mine?
I don’t even know what stage it’s in anymore.
I started this work with nothing but curiosity and survival instinct. No proper training. No certificate. Just a need to earn, to stand on my own, to not depend on anyone.
At first, everything felt like progress.
The first time I fixed an engine on my own, I couldn’t sleep that night. Not because I was tired, but because I was proud. Proud that I could create something out of nothing. Proud that my hands—these same rough, stained hands—could solve problems people were willing to pay for.
But pride doesn’t pay for growth.
Time passed.
Days turned into months. Months into years.
And somewhere along the way, I realized something painful…
I wasn’t moving forward anymore.
I was repeating.
Same street. Same customers. Same tools that break when I need them the most.
Same me.
People started calling me “boss,” but deep down, I knew the truth.
I wasn’t a boss.
I was just surviving.
There’s a difference.
Sometimes, when I lie under a car, staring at the rusted parts above me, I drift into my own world. A world where I have a real workshop. Not this roadside space where I have to pack up every time it rains.
A place with a roof.
With proper equipment.
With my name boldly written outside—not just as a mechanic, but as someone who built something real.
In that dream, customers don’t just come because I’m cheap.
They come because I’m good.
Because I’m trusted.
Because I’ve grown.
But then… reality pulls me back.
A customer calls my name. A tool slips from my hand. Or the sun hits my face too hard, reminding me exactly where I am.
Still here.
Still under the car.
Still dreaming.
The hardest part isn’t the work.
It’s the waiting.
Waiting for things to change. Waiting for money to be enough. Waiting for the “right time” that never seems to come.
And sometimes… I ask myself questions I don’t like answering.
“Is this all my life will be?”
“Will I still be here in another eight years?”
That thought scares me more than anything.
Because I know I’m capable of more.
I can feel it.
But feeling something and becoming it are two different battles.
There were times I tried to take a step forward—saving money, planning something bigger—but life has a way of testing you when you’re already tired.
Something always comes up.
Family needs. Unexpected problems. Days when work is slow and hope feels even slower.
And just like that… the little progress I make disappears.
So I go back to what I know.
Back under the car.
Back to surviving.
But here’s the truth I don’t say out loud often…
I haven’t given up.
Not completely.
Because no matter how many times life pulls me back, that picture in my head refuses to disappear.
That workshop.
That space.
That version of me.
Maybe it sounds foolish.
Maybe it sounds like a dream that’s too big for someone like me.
But it’s mine.
And right now, that’s enough to keep me going.
So tomorrow, I’ll wake up again.
Pick up my tools.
Lie under another car.
And continue this story…
Not because it’s easy.
But because I’m not done yet.
Not even close
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