Grief isn’t one-size-fits-all. When my grandfather passed away, I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I had to be strong for my mom, my dad, and my nephew. My tears would have made it harder for my mom to leave our home to mourn with her family. She needed the assurance that she could step away, that the home, her children, her family, were in safe hands. So I steeled myself. On the day of the funeral, I thought I’d finally let it out. I thought the dam would break. But nothing happened. No tears. No release. Instead, I busied myself with making sure everyone around me had what they needed. I cared for my siblings, my nephew, my niece. I worked, I organized, I managed—but I didn’t mourn. And to this day, I haven’t. Yet grief does not disappear just because it is silent. I catch myself remembering him at random moments. A scent, a song, a memory—and suddenly he’s heavy on my chest. Guilt rushes in. I loved him—I know I did—but there’s a hollowness too. Was I protecting myself all along? Did my brai...
There’s a specific kind of tired that doesn’t make sense. You didn’t run a marathon. You didn’t pull an all-nighter. You didn’t even do that much today. And yet… you’re exhausted. I’ve had days where I barely left my bed, barely spoke, barely did anything — and still felt like I had lived three lifetimes by evening. The kind of tired that sits behind your eyes. The kind that makes even resting feel like work. Your body feels heavy. Your mind feels foggy. You scroll, you lie down, you stare at the ceiling, and somehow you feel more drained than before. When someone asks what you did today, there’s this quiet guilt because “nothing” shouldn’t feel this exhausting. But here’s what we don’t talk about enough: Exhaustion isn’t always physical. A lot of us are tired of holding ourselves together. From regulating emotions all day. From overthinking every decision. From worrying about money, the future, relationships, healing, productivity, and whether we’re doing life “right.” From be...