The kind of tired that isn’t solved by a bath, by a cup of tea, or by closing your eyes for a few minutes—it’s the kind of exhaustion that burrows deep into your joints, into the tiny muscles of your hands and feet, and even into your teeth.
At forty-three, my body reminded me every day that it was no longer the resilient vessel it had once been.
My feet throbbed with every step, the ache radiating up into my knees.
My lower back screamed in protest with every twist and turn, and my hands burned from pushing carts, lifting groceries, and opening doors for my daughters, Ara and Celia.
Ara, fifteen, and Celia, seventeen, were home sick with colds, coughing and sneezing in bursts that filled the quiet house with tiny disruptions.
Homework papers and pens were scattered across the kitchen table in a chaotic mosaic, mingling with coffee mugs and empty snack wrappers.
The divorce had left our home quieter than it had ever been, but quiet didn’t always feel peaceful.
Sometimes it felt hollow, like an empty room with lingering echoes of the life we once knew.
The survival kit of a working mother, a kit honed over years of balancing exhaustion with responsibility, barely keeping us afloat.
I paused at the entrance of the grocery store, brushing a stray curl from my face and adjusting my coat.
That’s when I noticed Rick, the store manager. He was leaning lightly against the counter, clipboard in hand, quietly observing the flow of the evening crowd.
His presence was reassuring, like a small anchor in a sea that never stopped moving.
He had always been steady, dependable, quietly kind, a rarity in a world that seemed to spin too fast for most of us. Continue reading…
