The Weight of Everything I Don’t Say Out Loud

I’m not sure how to begin this one—because honestly, I don’t even feel like I’m in my life right now.

I’m going through the motions. Smiling at the right times. Saying I’m fine when I’m anything but.

The truth?

I’m physically and emotionally wrung out.

Like an old, overused wash rag—frayed at the edges, stretched thin, dripping with everything I’ve tried to soak up and hold together.

Heavy.

Drained.

Sour around the corners.

My body aches in places that never used to hurt.

My patience wears thinner by the minute.

My spirit?

She’s quiet. Still in there, but curled up in the corner hoping someone will notice she’s tired.

And I keep telling myself, “This is just a season.”

But what no one tells you is that some seasons don’t have clear start or end dates.

Some seasons drag on with no resolution, no closure—just one long, exhausting loop of trying to function when you’re running on fumes.

I’ve done the crying in the car thing.

I’ve done the pretend-I’m-okay-in-public thing.

I’ve done the keep-it-all-together-for-everyone-else thing.

And I’ve smiled while doing it, too—because that’s what we do, right?

We carry the weight. We soften the blow. We make it easier for others to be around us, even when it costs us everything.

But let’s be real for a second—

I am so. damn. tired.

And maybe you are too.

Tired of always being the strong one.

Tired of holding space for others while no one checks in on you.

Tired of pushing through when what you really need is a full stop, not another motivational quote and a cup of reheated coffee.

I don’t have a pretty bow to tie on this post.

There’s no triumphant comeback at the end.

Just honesty.

Because being wrung out doesn’t mean you’re weak—it means you’ve been showing up.

You’ve given what you had, even when it wasn’t enough.

You’ve poured out love and energy and time, even when you had to borrow it from tomorrow.

And somehow, even now, you’re still here.

Still breathing.

Still trying.

Still loving people the best way you can, even when your tank is flashing empty.

That matters.

You matter.

Not for what you accomplish. Not for how well you hold it together.

But because you are here. Still. In all your tired, messy, magnificent humanity.

So today, if you don’t do anything but rest—good.

If you cancel the thing, say no, lower the bar—good.

If all you have in you is surviving, barely—good.

Because you deserve rest.

You deserve softness.

You deserve to be held, too.

This season might be breaking you open, but I promise—it’s not the end.

You’re still here.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s more than enough.