There are two kinds of exhaustion.
The kind that comes from living.
From early mornings and late nights,
from lists that never end,
and days that run together.
It’s the kind that a good night’s sleep can soften,
that time or quiet can eventually mend.

And then there’s the other kind.
The one that lives in your bones.
It pulses beneath your skin,
weaves itself through every nerve,
and turns even rest
into another form of effort.
You wake tired.
You breathe tired.
You exist tired.

It’s not just in the body.
It’s the dull ache that settles in the mind,
the weight that drags at your spirit,
until weariness itself
becomes your constant companion.
You forget what it felt like
to move lightly through the world,
to wake unafraid of the day.

This kind of exhaustion
starts to shape you.
It drapes over you like a familiar cloak.
Soft but suffocating.
A quiet presence that never leaves.
You learn to function within it,
to smile through it,
to carry it as if it’s part of who you are.

And maybe, in some ways, it is.
It becomes a rhythm in your breath,
a language your body speaks
even when your voice stays silent.
You grow around it,
learn to live beside it,
and still, somewhere deep within,
you keep a memory of lightness.
Waiting for the day
you might feel it again.

But even here, beneath the weight,
there are moments that shimmer through.
The softness of morning light,
the rare steadiness of your own breath,
reminding you that exhaustion
is not all you are.
Somewhere inside,
the quiet part of you is healing,
slowly remembering how to rest.

And that keeps you hopeful and going.

Never giving up.