There is a kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep. It does not go away with rest, routine or time. It is the exhaustion of waking up every day already worn down, already negotiating with yourself just to exist.
Living with constant depression is not loud. It does not always announce itself. Most days, it looks like functioning. Showing up. Doing the work. Saying the right things. Inside, it feels like dragging yourself through a life you are expected to appreciate but never quite feel connected to.
Self-love is talked about as if it is something everyone starts with and occasionally loses. For some of us, it never formed at all. Confidence was never built, so there was nothing to restore.
What grows instead is a constant internal interrogation, a belief that you are always one step behind, one mistake away from being exposed as inadequate.
For as long as I can remember, even as a child, my prayers were not about heaven or hell. They were about just ceasing. Not death in a dramatic sense, not punishment or reward, just the idea of being allowed to stop without consequence. To simply not exist anymore felt more merciful than either eternity.
That thought has never meant I wanted to abandon anyone. In fact, the truth is the opposite. I am still here because the lives tied to mine matter more than my own exhaustion.
Leaving would cause harm I could never justify, and responsibility has always outweighed despair. Some people remain not because they feel hope, but because duty leaves them no other choice.
There is a particular cruelty in being trapped between not wanting to live and not being able to leave. It is a quiet prison. You continue breathing, continue producing, continue caring for others while carrying a weight no one can see. Survival becomes a long-term assignment, not a choice.
There are moments when the strain becomes too much for the body to hold. Crying can arrive without warning, not tied to a single thought or event. Laughter can follow just as unexpectedly, sharp and out of place, as if the nervous system is grasping for air.
These are not performances or contradictions. They are what happens when stress and unprocessed emotion finally erode through a vessel that appeared sealed.
When the mind has been disciplined into silence for too long, the body finds its own way to speak.
People often say, “You’re strong,” without realizing that strength in this context simply means endurance. It means continuing despite the absence of joy. It means waking up every day knowing you will do it again tomorrow.
This is not a story about wanting to die. It is a story about how hard it can be to live. About what it costs to stay. About the unseen labor of those who remain not because life is beautiful, but because leaving would break the people they love.
And sometimes, telling the truth about that weight is the only relief available.
If you are reading this during a week when everything feels too heavy and the idea of ending it seems like relief, please pause.
Strong emotions can compress time and make permanent decisions feel urgent. They are not. Even when the pain feels endless, it is not proof that escape is the answer.
If you do not feel safe talking to family or friends, reach out to someone whose only role is to help you through the moment. You are not weak for needing that, and you are not trapped, even if it feels that way right now.
Speaking up does not lock you into anything. It simply buys you time. Sometimes surviving the moment is enough.
If you or someone you love is struggling with thoughts of suicide or self-harm, help is available. In the United States, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline can be reached by calling or texting 988.
The service is available 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and is free and confidential. If you are in immediate danger, call 911.
If you are considering self-harm and do not feel comfortable talking to family or friends, please reach out. You are never truly trapped, even when it feels that way.
Help begins with speaking up, and you do not have to do that alone.
