Deep Breath| This is Life

Sometimes I question if I can keep pushing forward like this. How long can I sustain it? And more importantly, do I even want to?

Another late night glued to the laptop, juggling homework help and a laundry list of demands from everyone needing my attention. My eyes sting, my head throbs. It’s bedtime, but there’s still an hour of work hanging over my head.

As I finally crawl into bed, exhaustion tugs at me, yet my children hover nearby, eager to share their day’s gossip. I remind myself these moments are fleeting, but the weight of their needs drains me. Listening to their chatter as I go through my bedtime rituals, I’m numb to the fact that 4 am is fast approaching.

Peace settles as everyone drifts off to sleep and I offer up my prayers. Mentally, spiritually, and emotionally drained, I seek peace and guidance, wrestling with the fear of how much longer I can endure at this pace. How much longer can I spin the negativity into sunlight before I collapse under its weight?

4:12 AM, my alarm jolts me awake. I hit snooze, whispering another plea for holy strength to face the day. Prayers for my family, for mental balance, for the energy to rise from this bed.

The morning blur begins—the rush of routines, the silent plea for a moment’s reprieve. Coffee, vitamins, a hurried lunch prep of cherry tomatoes and cheese. On better days, perhaps some crackers. I add calming powder- a mix of magnesium to my drink, my weak attempt to ward off the impending overload.

In this season of shared vehicles, my husband reluctantly shuttles me to work. His mood is a mystery. We might grab a coffee, or we might endure a storm of negativity. I can never tell.

The drive becomes my window for texting my children, updating them on the day’s ever-changing schedule. I do my best to mother them my afar.

Arriving at work around 6:40 AM, I brace myself. Alone in the dark office, I wrestle with the outdated technology, creeping through the morning rituals of never enough, until backup finally arrives.

7 AM, relief as colleagues trickle in. Yet, the onslaught of demands continues, each one stacking atop the last. No breaks, no lunches—just relentless forward motion, driven by the knowledge that every moment spent here is a moment stolen from my true calling. But I can not complain – no one is listening anyway.

A new revelation is revealed, any time I use my time I will be docked. Thank goodness I have other employment besides this place. God always provides!

Dental appointments, graduation plans, familial needs—I shoulder them all, a light of support in a sea of needs. Yet, my own struggles go unnoticed, dismissed with a casual “just keep going” or drowned out by others’ louder woes. Do I even matter? The self-pity kicks in.

The day unfolds in a haze of obligations, a relentless cycle of listening, fixing, and soothing the cries for help. The injustice I witness is so unfair and wrong but I lack the power to make it right—a maddening frustration.

By day’s end, I’m hollowed out, dreaming of an escape from the massive number of voices, and the weight of duty that buries me alive. Throughout colleagues’ idle chatter, I rush to tie up loose ends. I am so robotic in my motion anymore, this is familiar to me now.

Eventually, I get to steal a moment with my son as a shared ride home brings time for uninterrupted conversation before the chaos of home engulfs me.

Arriving home, I prepare myself for the storm within—upset, needs, and negativity awaiting me. I hate how much I don’t want to go inside some days. The guilt of not being there and it being too much is a double-edged sword. There’s no time to rest; my second job begins, fueled by caffeine and duty. However, I know my creative juices will be renewed and that brings me a glimmer of joy.

As I prepare dinner, my son vanishes, retreating to his room. My daughter unloads her day’s burdens, like a massive title wave of emotion. I listen, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. In the background, my husband’s energy fills the room, a whirlwind of noise and activity as he paces loudly.

The evening blurs into a frenzy of chores, meetings, scheduling and work, and kids’ last-minute homework. As exhaustion gnaws at me, I soldier on, my efforts feeling hopeless against the tide beating me down.

Bedtime rituals offer a brief sense of hope—prayers whispered into the darkness, a fleeting moment of peace before another day begins. And despite it all, despite the doubts and the weariness, I know one thing for certain: I will keep going. Because sometimes, that’s all there is left to do.