Lost A

Tag: exhaustion

  • The Fear of the Unknown

    The Fear of the Unknown

    There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from waiting not the simple kind, but the heavy, aching kind that settles in your chest when you’ve been hoping for something for so long that even hope starts to feel like a burden.

    It’s the fear of the unknown.
    The fear of what if it never happens.
    The fear of what if it happens again the way it did before with disappointment, with broken promises, with people who say one thing and do another.

    You start to lose trust in words.
    In timelines.
    In “soon” and “I promise” and “don’t worry.”

    Because you’ve been tricked before.
    You’ve been let down before.
    And your mind, tired of being optimistic, begins wandering into darker corners the ones where you replay every moment someone failed you, every time you carried more than you should, every time you were the strong one because everyone else leaned on you.

    Being relied on sounds noble until it becomes a weight.
    Until you’re the one holding everything together while quietly falling apart.
    Until you’re tired of being the dependable one, the responsible one, the one who shows up even when she’s running on empty.

    And in the quiet moments the ones late at night, or early in the morning before the world wakes you wonder if it will ever get better.
    If your dreams will ever stop being dreams and become something real.
    If life will give you even a small piece of what you’ve been waiting for.

    You don’t want everything.
    Just something.
    A sign.
    A shift.
    A moment that tells you you’re not foolish for hoping.

    But here’s the truth buried beneath all the exhaustion:
    The fact that you’re still hoping even after everything says something about you.
    It says you haven’t given up on yourself.
    It says your heart, despite the bruises, still believes in the possibility of better days.
    It says your dreams matter enough to keep alive, even when the world feels heavy.

    Maybe the unknown is frightening because it holds both the worst and the best.
    And maybe just maybe part of your story is learning to walk toward it anyway.

    Not because you trust people.
    Not because promises have been kept.
    But because somewhere inside you, there’s a quiet, stubborn part that still believes your life can shift.
    That something good can happen.
    That even if it doesn’t come all at once, a small piece of your dream might find its way to you.

    And when it does, you’ll know it was worth surviving the dark places to reach the light.

  • The Quiet Collapse

    The Quiet Collapse

    There are stretches of life that feel like walking through a dim hallway with no doors just one long path where the weight on your shoulders keeps growing, quietly, insistently.

    Work becomes a place where everything is urgent. Every task is time‑sensitive. Every hour feels like it’s already late. You carry so much that your body forgets what lightness feels like. Then night comes, not as rest, but as another responsibility classes, readings, preparing. You move through your evenings like someone trying to outrun the clock. Sleep becomes a negotiation. Eating becomes something you squeeze into the margins. Even showering feels like a luxury you have to earn.

    And beneath all of this, grief hums. Losing your best friend doesn’t happen once it happens every day, in small ways. In the silence. In the moments you reach for someone who isn’t there. It feels like half of your soul slipped out of your life, leaving you to navigate everything with a missing piece.

    Then your body begins to falter. The exhaustion becomes physical. The aches become louder. You start to wonder how much more weight a single person can carry before something gives.

    And still you keep going.

    Not loudly. Not heroically. Just steadily, in the quiet way people do when life doesn’t give them a choice. You move through the heaviness with a kind of fragile strength, the kind that doesn’t look impressive from the outside but is made of pure endurance.

    Some seasons don’t just get worse they get heavier. But even in the heaviness, even in the ache, even in the exhaustion that feels like it’s settling into your bones, you are still here. Still trying. Still holding on to the hope that one day, the weight will lift, even a little.

    Just keep swimming…