You keep saying you’re tired.
But you’ve slept.
You’ve rested.
You’ve backed off, slowed down, taken breaks.
Still tired.
Maybe you’re not tired.
Maybe you’re unlived.
There’s a kind of fatigue that no nap fixes.
It comes from being stuck in a version of you
that’s too quiet,
too polite,
too afraid to exist fully.
It’s not burnout.
It’s backlog.
Backlog of truth you swallowed.
Desires you buried.
Dreams you downsized to survive a life
you didn’t even choose.
And every time you hit snooze on your own potential,
you pay for it in energy.
Not the physical kind—
The kind that animates your presence.
You’ve been running on suppression.
And now your body is asking for something real.
Not more caffeine.
Not another weekend off.
Not another scroll-through of someone else’s highlight reel.
It wants you.
The you who moves without apology.
The you who stopped explaining.
The you who no longer needs permission to wake up differently.
Tired isn’t always about effort.
Sometimes it’s about truth-debt.
The longer you withhold your real self,
the heavier everything becomes.
And here’s the thing—
You can’t feel rested
inside a life that numbs you.
