Tired of Surviving

I found myself here… but not truly living.
Not living to my fullest potential.
Not living to my fullest joy.
Not living to my fullest self.

For some reason, there’s this quiet resentment in my bones.
Not the fiery kind that pushes you to rise,
but the heavy kind — the weight that drags your spirit down.

I have always been tired.
Tired of holding myself together.
Tired of carrying dreams that feel too big for my hands.
Tired of whispering instead of taking up space.

I’ve reached a point where I wonder if my journey is ending,
not because I’ve failed,
but because I’m exhausted from being the only one holding me up.

I’ve always told myself I have everything within me —
and maybe I do —
but right now, that truth feels hollow when my body craves rest.

I keep bringing everything back to my Maker,
laying it down, again and again,
but the ache doesn’t disappear.
Maybe this is what it feels like to live half-submerged,
half-dreaming, half-breathing,
existing — but not truly living.

I want to know what it feels like
to be fully here.
To take up space without shrinking.
To laugh without the weight behind my ribs.
To breathe without holding my chest tight.
To exist in a life where I am more than surviving.

And maybe, one day,
I’ll look back at this chapter
and see that even in this exhaustion,
I was still reaching.
That even in my silence,
my heart was still whispering:

"Don’t give up yet. There’s more of you to meet."