Some days it feels like my life is so large it can’t be lived, let alone loved.
It’s not living. It’s survival.
Running… but from what? And even more to the point, towards what?
Exhausted, but unable to stop. Because stopping means falling behind, and falling behind feels like something I may never recover from.
Tortured by my OCD, anxiety, PTSD, postnatal depletion, and my neurodivergence – a tangled combination my GP once described as “a muddy mix that isn’t really manageable, even with medication”.
“All we can do is take the edge off”
This life I have created is one I can barely breathe inside of, yet I am bound to it by the deepest love I have ever known – my children, my husband, my family.
I hate the mess.
The chaos.
The constant noise. The bang, crash, boom
I hate who I have become inside this life.
Resentful. Unhappy. Unhinged.
I hate the way I react to my children simply being children. The way I plead with them, and with my husband, for the chaos to soften. For the noise to quieten. For life to feel a little more manageable.
And then comes the guilt.
The unbearable weight of knowing that the people I love the most are often the ones who see me at my breaking point.
The emotional rollercoaster.
The needs that go unmet.
The sadness and rage that sit inside my body, waiting for somewhere to go.
Today I turn 35.
And the road here has been hard.
365 days of slog.
A marathon filled with unexpected hurdles that didn’t just slow me down – they knocked me to the floor.
And from the floor, looking ahead at 36, I don’t feel excitement for the year ahead.
I don’t feel ready to embrace the next chapter.
I feel braced.
Braced for more, for the next impact.
But somewhere underneath all of this, there is a tiny part of me that remembers something important:
These days are hard, but this is not a hopeless life.
Today is not a day where I can see the magic. Today I can’t feel the beauty hiding amongst the chaos. Today I can only feel the weight of it all.
But I know there have been moments of beauty before and there will be again.
Small moments.
A tiny hand reaching for mine.
A laugh that catches me off guard.
A sunset that makes me stop for a second.
A moment where I remember that this life, even in all its overwhelming fullness, is also the life I fought so hard to have.
Maybe this year isn’t about becoming someone new.
Maybe it’s about slowly finding my way back.
One breathe.
One moment.
One day at a time.
If you are reading this and recognise yourself in these words, I want you to know this:
You are not the only one who has felt swallowed by a life you deeply love.
You are not the only one who is exhausted from carrying things that no one else can see.
Some days are about growth. Some days are about healing. Some days are about simply making it through.
And that is enough.
Keep going gently.
There is still beauty ahead, even if today is far from beautiful.
