The Exhaustion That Is Not Fixed by Sleep

by Rebecca Bloom

There is a kind of tiredness that sleep cannot reach.

I did not understand this for most of my life.

I thought exhaustion meant I needed an earlier night or a quieter weekend.

I thought rest was something you could catch up on if you just tried hard enough.

But the more my body slowed down, the more I realised I was carrying a different kind of fatigue.

One that had nothing to do with hours of sleep and everything to do with years of pretending I was fine.

There is a tiredness that comes from holding yourself together.

A tiredness from being useful so that people have a reason to keep you.

A tiredness from being agreeable so no one has anything to criticise.

A tiredness from swallowing hurt before anyone sees it.

A tiredness from being the strong one long after your knees start to shake.

It is a tiredness that grows quietly.

A tiredness that settles under the skin and behind the ribs.

A tiredness that becomes so normal you forget it is there.

Sleep cannot touch it because it is not the body that is worn out.

It is the part of you that has been surviving for too long.

When I finally slowed down, I could feel it clearly.

The fog in my mind.

The heaviness in my chest.

The feeling of being alive and absent at the same time.

It was not laziness or weakness.

It was the cost of years spent being everything for everyone.

The exhaustion I feel now is layered.

Part of it is my body speaking through pain and inflammation.

But another part is older.

It is the tired child who never had time to rest.

The one who thought rest was something you had to earn.

The one who thought being calm meant being invisible.

This tiredness needs something different.

It needs gentleness.

It needs honesty.

It needs moments where I let myself be human instead of useful.

It needs the kind of care I never received when I needed it most.

So now I try to listen.

Not perfectly.

Not gracefully.

Just honestly.

If my body asks for stillness, I sit.

If my mind feels foggy, I soften.

If the old panic rises at the thought of resting, I breathe and remind myself I am safe enough now to stop.

Sleep can help a tired body.

But only tenderness can soothe a tired self.

The child inside me is finally learning that she does not have to earn her rest anymore.

And I am learning it too.

Rebecca Bloom