The way exhaustion lives in my bones

Most days, I carry it.

The pressure.

The responsibilities.

The emotions.

The memories.

The invisible weight of it all.

Most days, I show up.

I smile.

I function.

I make it through.

But what you don’t notice is the way my legs shake with no way to stop it.

The way my legs give out from under me when the world expects me to stand tall.

The way exhaustion lives in my bones, no matter how much I rest, no matter how much healing work I do.

Because survival isn’t strength.

Not when it’s your only option.

Not when it’s been your only option for years.

What people don’t understand about surviving long-term emotional abuse is that it doesn’t end when the abuse does.

The damage lingers.

The body keeps score.

The nervous system keeps firing, even when the danger has technically passed.

Even after fighting like hell to walk away from abuse

even after doing the work

even after rebuilding my mind

even after finding peace inside myself

the outside world can still keep you stuck

Situations you have no choice but to deal with the same things you fought so hard to escape, manipulation, gaslighting, and just constant conflict out of your control.

Sometimes it’s daily.

Sometimes it’s weekly.

Sometimes it’s the smallest thing, a word, a look, a dismissal,

and it rips open the same wounds you’ve stitched closed a thousand times before.

There’s a point where exhaustion doesn’t just steal your energy —

it steals your ability to function.

I know what needs to be done.

I can see it all laid out in front of me.

But my brain can’t hold onto the steps anymore.

The strength isn’t there to move through it like I used to.

So I end up walking around aimlessly, touching half-finished tasks, trying to make things easier but only creating more chaos.

And then the guilt sets in.

The frustration.

Because I know I’m capable of so much more —

but no matter how much I want to push through,

my mind and body aren’t connecting like they used to.

It’s not laziness.

It’s not weakness.

It’s the physical and mental toll of carrying more than a human being should have to —

for too long, with no real way out.

And when you try to explain it

when you tell the truth

“I’m exhausted.”

“I’m barely surviving right now.”

“I feel like my body is giving out on me.”

most people don’t know what to do with it.

Not because they’re cruel.

Not because they don’t care.

Because they don’t know.

Because they’ve never lived it.

And still, knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Because when you finally open up, when you finally show the truth of the weight you’re carrying, and it’s met with silence or brushed off,

you feel invisible all over again.

You feel like you have to justify why you’re tired.

Why you’re struggling.

Why you can’t just bounce back this time.

And honestly

I’m tired of justifying it.

I’m tired of pretending survival is easy.

I’m tired of pretending strength means never breaking.

It doesn’t.

Sometimes strength is shaking and trembling and still trying.

Sometimes strength is surviving without anyone noticing the fight it takes just to stay standing.

And I’m not sharing this because I want pity.

I’m not sharing it because I need saving.

I’m sharing it because if you’re reading this and you know exactly what I’m talking about

if you’re living in that silent collapse that nobody sees

you need to know

You are not weak.

You are not broken.

You are not alone.

And you don’t have to apologize for the weight you carry.

Not to anyone.

– Lindsay-Michele