Some mornings, I wake up already tired. And it’s not the kind of tired where you need an Alani or an extra hour of sleep. No, it’s the kind of tired that sits deep in your bones – the kind that makes you want to stay in bed forever and never face the day. But I don’t get that choice. I can’t hide from it. There’s always a new mountain to climb, more assignments, more tests, more expectations. So, I force myself to open my eyes, knowing that I’m already running on empty. 

I get up, get dressed, throw on that mask I’ve perfected over the years, the one that says, “I’ve got this.” I smile like everything’s fine, like I’m not drowning in it all. I pretend that the weight of the world isn’t crushing my chest. I pretend that I’m not already exhausted before the day has even started. 

I tell myself, “It’s fine. I’ll survive today. I just have to get through today.” But the second I step back through my door at home, it hits. Hard. It’s like all the energy I pretended to have that day, the energy I borrowed to keep pretending I was okay, comes crashing down on me. It’s overwhelming. My shoulders sag, my body feels like it’s made of stone, and my brain is too foggy to even know where to start. Do I collapse into bed? Do I eat something? Do I pretend like I have the strength to finish the homework that’s already making me feel like I’m failing? 

Some nights, I just want to cry. But I don’t. I can’t. Because everyone keeps saying, “You have to push through it. You’ll get better at balancing it. If you just try harder…” 

But what happens when you try your best, and it’s still not enough? What happens when the “balance” everyone talks about just feels like another word people use to make you think there’s a solution to your exhaustion? It’s a lie. Because when I try to cut something out to make room for a breath, to just breathe for one second, I feel like I’m breaking. Like I’ve failed. Like I’m not doing enough, like I’m weak for needing to stop. 

Why does it feel like I’m not allowed to be tired? Why does it feel like if I drop one thing, even just one, the whole world will come crashing down around me? It’s like there’s this constant pressure to do it all, be it all, and never show that it’s breaking me. If I stop, if I ask for help, if I admit I’m struggling, what does that say about me? That I’m not good enough? That I’m not strong enough? 

So, I keep going. I keep trying to convince myself that tomorrow will be easier. I wake up, do the exact same thing, and pretend that I’m fine. But inside? I’m empty. I’m drained. I’m drowning in all the things I’m supposed to be. All the things I’m supposed to do. And no matter how hard I try, there’s no escaping the weight. It’s like I’m suffocating under the pressure to meet everyone else’s expectations, including my own. 

And then, when the day ends, I’m alone in my room, staring at the ceiling and the pile of things I still haven’t done. The texts I haven’t answered. The towels that have been sitting in the laundry room all week. The homework I haven’t finished. The things I said I’d do but couldn’t because I just don’t have the energy left to give. I look at it all, and I feel this crushing sense of defeat. Like I’m never enough. Like I’m just going through the motions, but no one sees how much it’s costing me. No one sees how hard I’m fighting just to stay afloat. 

And that guilt? That gnawing, unshakable guilt that I’m not doing enough? It’s always there. It never goes away. It’s that voice that whispers in the back of my head, telling me that if I just tried harder, if I just worked longer, if I just gave up a little more of myself, maybe I’d get it right. Maybe I could do it all. Maybe I could be the person who doesn’t crumble under the weight of it all. 

But I’m not that person. I’m not a machine. I’m a person trying to survive. And sometimes surviving means admitting that I’m not okay. That I’m barely holding it together, and it’s okay to feel like that. 

Maybe that’s what no one ever tells you: It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to admit that you can’t do it all, because honestly, none of us can. We weren’t built to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders and still be expected to smile through it. We weren’t built to be perfect, to be everything to everyone. We were built to be human, to be allowed to be vulnerable. To rest when we need it, to be okay with saying, “I can’t today.” 

So if you’re reading this, and you feel like you’re falling apart, if you feel like no one understands how exhausting it is to keep up with it all, you’re not alone. If you feel like no one sees the pressure, the exhaustion, the constant cycle of pretending, it’s not just you. We’re all in this together. And it’s okay to feel like you’re drowning. It’s okay to admit that you need a break. 

Because the truth is, no one can do it all. And that’s okay. It’s okay to stop pretending. It’s okay to not have it together all the time. And sometimes, just saying that out loud—that we’re struggling, that we’re tired, might be the first step toward actually finding some peace.