I’m Existing
This seems to be a common thing lately. There is no hiding it. There is no faking it.
Living like this for so long has affected my mood. I’m over it. When someone asks how I’m doing, I just say, “I’m existing.” Sometimes they chuckle. Sometimes they offer sympathy. Really, the response doesn’t even matter anymore. It’s all the same.
Existing is the most honest answer I have.
This is something I can’t stand. I’m tired of the way it affects me and the people I love. It bothers me that my husband feels like I’m mad when I’m not. I feel so tired. My exhaustion is beyond sleep’s help. I’m worn down by pain that doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t wait for a convenient time, doesn’t care that it’s a Sunday, or a family moment, or a normal day that everyone else is allowed to enjoy.
All I want to do is collapse into my bed. The guilt that comes with that is its own kind of heavy. I’d like to share his excitement about things. My goal is to light up when my children do. I want to be the mom who jumps up and says, “Yes, let’s do it!” and actually means it with my whole body, not just my mouth. I want to be happy and energetic, the kind of happy that spills out of you without effort. But I’m not… and I can’t pull something out that isn’t there.
Today I tried to be present during church. Mostly, I was. It was a wonderful message… James, chapter one. There was a line about asking God for wisdom… and I wanted it to move me. I wanted it to crack something open inside me. I wanted it to reach that place in my chest that feels locked up and starving for hope. I wanted to walk out feeling strengthened, or comforted, or even just… held. But it didn’t… and that’s the part that scares me to admit.
The truth is, I believe God is good. I believe He doesn’t tempt us with evil. I have heard that people can be refined by trials, build endurance, and receive wisdom by asking. I can quote it. I can type it out, add a verse, and make it look pretty… like tying a bow around suffering.
But I’m so exhausted that I feel numb. Not rebellious. Not faithless. Just… numb. It’s like my spirit is sitting on the edge of my bed the same way my body does… slumped over, shoulders heavy, trying to take a breath that feels like it hits a wall. It’s like my heart is whispering, “I believe,” while the rest of me can only manage, “I’m so tired.”
My tone reflects the pain, and it hurts to see it spill over. I snap, or shut down, or go quiet… not because I don’t love the people around me, but because I have nothing left to give in that moment. The world keeps moving… laundry still needs done, dinner still needs to be made, kids still need rides, life still needs to be managed… while my body is screaming like it’s in survival mode.
And I keep trying to act like I can keep up… Because I can’t. Sometimes I feel like I’m watching life through a window. I can see it happening. I can hear the laughter. I can see the excitement. And I’m right there… but I’m also not. I’m calculating how much it will cost my body to participate. I’m measuring my words. I’m bracing for the crash. I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m fading.
And then someone asks, “How are you?” And I say, “I’m existing.” Because “existing” is what it feels like when you’re carrying pain so long it rewrites your personality. It’s when you don’t recognize your reactions. When you miss the version of yourself who used to be lighter. When you want to feel gratitude and joy and strength, but your nervous system and your body have other plans.
If you’ve ever been in this place, you know what I mean. It’s not that I don’t love my life. I do. I love my family. I love my kids so fiercely it aches. I love my husband. I love the little moments… the ones I can catch when my body loosens its grip for a minute. I love God. I do. But I’m also grieving.
I’m grieving the energy I don’t have. I’m grieving days that feel stolen. I’m grieving the way chronic pain can make you feel like you’re constantly apologizing… even when no one asked you to. The constant internal battle of trying to be “fine” is something I’m grieving, as I don’t want to make others uncomfortable, yet I’m quietly falling apart.
Maybe this is where James chapter one actually meets me, even if I didn’t feel it at the moment. Faith might not always be like fireworks. Maybe it isn’t always a warm rush or a sudden peace. Maybe sometimes faith is just showing up… numb, exhausted, frustrated… and still saying, “God, I’m here.” Maybe wisdom looks like admitting the truth instead of pretending.
So here’s mine… raw and shaky and not polished:
God, I’m tired. I feel empty. I feel like I’m only existing. Please meet me here anyway. Don’t let pain steal my softness, please. Please don’t let exhaustion turn me into someone I don’t recognize. Please give me endurance… not the kind that looks impressive, but the kind that gets me through the next hour. Give me wisdom about how to live inside this body. Give my husband patience and reassurance that I’m not angry… I’m just hurting. Cover my kids in gentleness when my energy is low. Hold us together when I feel like I’m unraveling.
And if all I can offer today is existing… then God, please make even that enough. Because I have nothing else right now. But I’m still here… still existing.
