There are days that pass quietly, yet heavily. I wake up, go to work, respond to messages, complete my tasks. Everything appears normal. And yet, beneath the routine, something feels absent. I am moving through life, but not fully present in it.
Nothing dramatic has happened. From the outside, my life looks fine. That is what makes the exhaustion harder to explain. I don’t know how to tell anyone that I am tired in a way that doesn’t come with a clear reason.
People tell me to try harder, to plan ahead, to think about the future. They mean well. But the more I hear it, the more lost I feel. Not because I don’t want a better life, but because I no longer know what I am striving toward.
I’ve learned how to appear okay. I smile. I say I’m fine. Not because I am hiding the truth, but because I don’t know how to put it into words. I am here, I am functioning, but I am not fully alive.
Work fills my days, not with passion, but with responsibility. Family asks out of concern, but their questions reflect the uncertainty I carry. At night, I sit with my thoughts and feel an emptiness that has no name.
Some days, I am simply surviving. Holding myself together. Pretending strength. And maybe, for now, that is enough.
Perhaps there are seasons in life meant not for growth, but for endurance. And perhaps being here, still moving forward in small ways, is already a quiet form of courage.
