if I keep going.
This past week felt like I was caught in the eye of a storm—chaotic, overwhelming, and nonstop. My plate wasn’t just full; it was overflowing. And somehow, in the middle of pouring into everyone else, I forgot to feed myself—literally and figuratively. I found myself running on nothing. Not even fumes. The cup I was trying to pour from? It wasn’t just empty—it was bone dry. Not a mist, not a drop, not even a trace of H2O.
Over the weekend, my body finally waved the white flag. I hit a wall—fatigue so intense it physically stopped me from helping in a moment I knew mattered. That shook me. It was my wake-up call. A message from my soul saying, “You can’t keep going like this.”
Why do we believe we need to suffer to prove our strength? Why do we think showing up for everyone else at the cost of ourselves is noble? It’s not. I’m learning that honoring my needs and nurturing my well-being isn’t selfish—it’s necessary. Because the love I give, the support I offer, the light I try to be… none of that can exist if I’m running on empty.
When you’re not well, you’re not happy. That’s the truth. And yes, I’ve been taking steps—my vitamins, my iron, being patient with myself—but I’ve also been silently rushing. Not on the outside, but internally, it’s like my spirit is racing at 100 mph. And the thing is, when you’re speeding for so long at a steady pace, you don’t even realize how fast you’re going… until you crash.
I don’t want to crash anymore. I don’t want to live in a loop of burnout and recovery. I want peace. I want balance. And I’m learning—truly learning—that healing is not linear. It doesn’t respond to deadlines. It doesn’t answer to urgency. It requires surrender.
Lately, I’ve felt like time is either flying or frozen. Things feel like they’re happening way too fast and yet, not fast enough. But I get it now—that’s just the illusion stress creates. It disconnects us from the moment and steals the joy that could’ve existed in the now.
Sleep doesn’t even feel like rest anymore. Even when I get enough hours, I wake up just as tired. Because my mind is still holding tension, still running scenarios, still trying to control the uncontrollable. I haven’t been letting go… but I need to.
Because no matter how heavy life gets, it’s never the end. I’ve been through enough storms to know that somehow, some way, I always make it through. It might not look perfect. It might not be pretty. But I survive. I rise. And now, more than ever, I’m learning to just take it day by day, hour by hour.
To live in the now.
To breathe through the chaos.
To rest without guilt.
Because I believe in my future. I see a life full of light and love and purpose—if I keep going. If I don’t give up. If I stay rooted in my “why.” And my why will always be my children. I want them to see me stable. At peace. Thriving. Not stressed and stretched thin.
They remind me often, in their own way, that I’m strong. That I find a way, always. And even when it’s not perfect—it’s enough. And maybe that’s what life really is: not about getting it all right, but simply choosing not to give up.
I refuse to let pride or ego tell me I don’t belong, or that this is the end of my story. Because it’s not. My life is just beginning. And I’ll begin again as many times as I need to—until I get it right.
Dear Diary, 