Sacred Sunday | Soul Tired

Some of us became strong before we ever became safe.

That shapes a person.

I love silence and solitude.

Not because I’m avoiding life,

but because it’s the only place I don’t have to perform.

No suitcase of costumes.

No smiling on the outside while bleeding on the inside.

No adjusting myself to make others comfortable.

In silence, I don’t have to prove anything.

I just exist.

And it’s beautiful.

Safer.

My body softens —

and the edges of me disappear.

Finally, I stop holding everything up.

There’s nothing to brace for.

But there’s a part I didn’t expect.

Even when I’m alone,

even when I’m quiet,

even when I gather myself back together .…

I wake up just as tired as when I lay down.

Because that kind of tired doesn’t come from doing too much.

It comes from surviving.

From a life of stitching everything together

while silently coming apart at the seams.

From being strong because it wasn’t optional.

From picking myself up over and over

even when no one saw me fall.

Sometimes you don’t realize how long you’ve been holding your breath

until the room finally goes quiet.

Soul tired isn’t a problem.

It’s what happens when you’ve been holding your breath

for a very, very long time.

If this is you, you already know.

Mantra for this week:

My weariness is not failure — it’s evidence of everything I’ve carried.