I’m not just tired. I’m trauma tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, that coffee can’t cure, that silence can’t soothe. It’s a deep ache that lives in the bones, a heaviness that settles in the soul.
My body carries years of fight or flight, CPTSD, anxiety, depression, and exhaustion from always having to be “okay” when I wasn’t. It’s like living in a body that has forgotten what safety feels like.
Every sound feels like a warning, every day feels like a test, and even peace feels temporary like something that’ll be taken away the moment I get used to it. Most days, I’m not lazy. I’m just drained. Completely.
My mind is tired of surviving, my heart is tired of pretending, and my body is tired of holding everything together. It’s like my soul keeps whispering, “I can’t take anymore,” but somehow I still get up, still move, still try. I show up even when I’m breaking quietly inside.
I smile even when I’m too numb to feel it. I keep breathing even when it feels like a chore. And maybe that’s the real strength no one talks about surviving what tried to destroy you, even when it left you permanently tired.
So if all you did today was exist, if all you managed was to keep going despite the heaviness, that’s enough. You’re not weak for feeling broken, you’re brave for continuing anyway.
One breath, one moment, one small step at a time; that’s how healing begins.
