The word “tired” doesn’t fully express my feelings, despite my repeated use of it.
Tiredness has taken over my body. Exhaustion derives from pain; it does not request, nor does it quit once the sun sets. But I’m also tired in quieter places… in my thoughts that feel foggy and slow, in the heaviness behind my eyes, in the constant mental math of deciding what I can afford to give and what will cost me later. Exhaustion underlies everything, even during externally “fine” periods.
My health is not the only factor here. It never is. It’s about parenting while your body is stuck in survival mode. Parenting asks for steadiness, patience, softness. It asks you to stay regulated when your own nervous system is flaring. I desire to attend with warmth and energy, though I attend measuring what’s remaining. I measure moments instead of enjoying them. Guilt slips in quietly and tells me I’m failing even when I know I’m doing everything I can.
When my kids need me, I lag behind my own intentions. I hope to sit on the floor longer, to spring quickly, and to respond gently. Instead, pain layers itself over the moment like static. My body tightens. My patience thins. The effort it takes just to stay present becomes its own weight… and that hurts in a very specific way.
Because your body limits you, you feel the ache of wanting to give more. The sharp sting of loving fiercely while feeling physically restrained. It’s grief that settles in the chest when you realize pain doesn’t pause just because your child needs comfort.
My love for my children is unquestionable. That love has never wavered. But love doesn’t magically create energy or strength my body can’t produce. Sometimes, loving them appears to be simply enduring the whole day. Some days, it looks like apologizing for being short or quiet. And some days, it looks like doing the bare minimum and sitting with the shame of it afterward.
Because of my upcoming appointment, there is a constant fear, layered over all of this, resting in my chest. Waiting continues. More “we don’t know.” More pain without a plan.
After being sick for an extended period, hope takes on a complicated nature. You crave answers, but you brace yourself for disappointment. You ready yourself for both relief and loss concurrently.
Then comes the feeling of loneliness. Emotional needs going unmet. Feeling misunderstood. Unsure how to locate dread without becoming burdensome. Watching connections change. Feeling people drift. Losing the one place where your pain felt seen with no need of translation. That kind of loss doesn’t announce itself. It erodes quietly.
My anger is greater than I care to reveal. Not explosive. Just sharp around the edges. Irritable. Overstimulated. Easily overwhelmed. I don’t like this version of myself, but I recognize her. Exhaustion has overcome her. She’s scared. She’s been holding everything together for too long without rest.
Although I would rather not shut everything out, sometimes it feels safer to avoid repeating myself. I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing it because pretending I’m okay takes more energy than telling the truth; because chronic illness doesn’t stay in the body. It seeps into parenting, marriage, friendships, faith, and identity.
I’m still showing up; still loving my kids. Fighting for answers is something I still do.
To be blunt, I must state this. I wake up carrying pain before my feet hit the floor. Fear follows me through the day. Responsibility presses on my shoulders. Grief lingers in the background of ordinary moments. Motherhood asks everything of me while my body resists. And every day, I negotiate with a body that doesn’t cooperate.
There are days when silence is simply too difficult to maintain. This is me setting it down for a moment… naming it. Admitting that surviving takes more strength than people realize.
I am still here. I’m just tired of holding everything alone.
#MomWithATube
