Member-only story
The Life That’s Already Here
I didn’t mean to break down again.
But it wasn’t cinematic either. It was just me, locked in the bathroom, leaning against the counter, and crying. Not long. Probably less than two minutes. Just enough to let the pressure ease so that I could breathe again.
I’d been running too hot for too long. Again. Four and a half hours of sleep a night for weeks, and once again telling myself it was “just temporary.” Just one more project, a few more emails, and a few more late night pushes—and then I’d rest. I’d earned it.
Except, rest isn’t something you earn. It’s not a reward. It’s one of those thing that keeps you from falling apart.
When I came back to my desk, I didn’t dive back into my inbox. I opened my journal instead. I typed until my hands ached. I wrote about nothing and everything—exhaustion, fear, inadequacy, the absurd treadmill I keep putting myself on.
I felt the tears again, but I let them quietly roll down my face while the words continued to spill out.
Somewhere in the middle of all that digital ink, I thought about my wife in some other part of the house. So I pushed back from the computer, stood up, and found her. No words. I just wrapped my arms around her and kissed her.
