Hello, I’m Exhausted

Hello, I’m Exhausted

Everything about this grief journey has been a giant learning curve. And not the kind you grow from and feel inspired by—more like the kind that knocks you on your ass and leaves you wondering how people survive this.

Not that anyone walks into grief thinking, “I’m ready for this. I’ve prepared.” But even if you could prepare, I don’t think anything would really help. Nothing prepares you. Not for the numbness. Not for the overwhelming list of logistics you suddenly have to handle. (death is expensive, and requires alot of "clean up") Not for the moment when all the feelings you’ve been trying to outrun finally catch up and hit you like a brick wall. It’s brutal. And it’s taken everything out of me.

There’s no class that teaches you how much your world will shift. No handbook on how to hold it together when everything you knew about safety, love, and home suddenly feels fragile. People don’t talk about it enough, but when it hits you—when you’re the one in it—it levels you. And I didn't just lose one of my safeties. I lost them both. My voice of reason, my financial advisor, my career coach, my biggest fans. Nothing prepares you for that loss and how to process it.

August is rough for me. My dad’s birthday is in a few days, and then the anniversary of his death follows right after. I haven’t talked much about my dad’s death here. I think I’ve avoided it for a few reasons, but mostly because it was the moment everything changed. Like, permanently. His death wasn’t just a loss—it was the trigger for everything that unraveled after. And none of it was good.

We didn’t even have time to process losing him before we were told my mom had terminal cancer. An aggressive form that most didn't survive past 6-7 months after diagnosis, even with treatment. Seven months from diagnosis to death. I mean—how do you even process that? We hadn't even processed dad's death or begin to realize the impact of losing him. Then, mom is sick. Not only sick, but she isn't going to survive it.

So I shut down. I numbed everything I could. I told myself I had to be strong for my family. I had lists. Schedules. Things to do. Helping mom became my full-time focus. I convinced myself staying busy was productive… that it was helpful. But now I know what I was really doing—I was avoiding. Suppressing. Delaying the inevitable.

And the longer I pushed it down, the more my body started to feel it. It caught up with me. It is still catching up with me.

This exhaustion I live with now? It’s not the “I need a nap” kind of tired. It’s this all-consuming, everything-feels-heavier-than-it-should kind of tired. Like I’m dragging around emotional weights all the time. Things that used to be easy just…aren’t anymore. I used to be constantly moving—always doing something, crossing things off lists, achieving, checking the next box. I thought rest was for people who didn’t have goals. (Hi, recovering over-achiever here.)

But now? I physically can’t.

Some days I’m productive, I’ll have a decent day and feel like, “Okay, I’ve got this.” But most days, even thinking about doing more than the bare minimum feels overwhelming. And I hate that. It’s frustrating. But I’ve learned that this is actually a thing—it’s part of grief.

There’s research that shows grief affects the brain in very real, physical ways. According to neurologists, grief activates the same brain regions as physical pain: the anterior cingulate cortex and prefrontal cortex. Which means when you’re grieving, your brain is doing real work. Emotional pain lights up the same pain pathways as an injury. That heavy, achy, foggy feeling? It’s not in your head—it’s in your nervous system.

And here’s the wild part—when you delay or suppress grief (like I did), your body doesn’t just forget. It holds onto that emotional energy. The term for this is somatic grief. Research shows that unprocessed grief and chronic stress can manifest physically—as headaches, digestive issues, insomnia, chest tightness, fatigue, even autoimmune flare-ups. Your body basically goes, “Well, if you won’t feel this emotionally, I’m gonna hold it for you.”

There’s also something called “grief brain.” It’s the fog. The forgetfulness. The inability to concentrate or multitask. Scientists say it comes from your brain being overloaded by emotional trauma—especially if you’re trying to function in survival mode at the same time. It’s not just stress. It’s your whole nervous system trying to recalibrate while mourning.

So yeah—this constant feeling of being mentally fried, emotionally shut down, and physically wiped out? It makes sense. They call it “grief fatigue.” And yep—it’s very real.

So now add grief fatigue on top of regular life responsibilities and, yeah… I’m done. We’re trying to sell our house right now, and there’s just so much to do. Cleaning. Yard work. Packing. keeping it ready for showings. Driving back and forth. Then we come back to the house we’re temporarily living in (which, by the way, is 1200 square feet with three dogs and five cats—so you can imagine the chaos) and there’s more. Cleaning. Organizing. Maintenance so it's ready to rent back out again once we move out. More lists. More stuff.

And honestly? I’m checked out.

It’s not that I don’t care. I do. I want to get it all done. I want to also have a social life, and do things I enjoy. But I just have no capacity. No motivation. My body isn’t necessarily tired, but my brain and my spirit feel completely burned out. I’ve Googled all the things—Should I drink more green tea? Am I low on magnesium? Is there a supplement that can magically fix this? But no. Turns out there’s no shortcut. No cheat code. Just time and patience. (Patience and me are not friends. Ugh.)

So now, I’m trying to do something that feels really hard for me: give myself grace.

That word—grace—used to annoy me, honestly. It felt soft. Passive. Like, “just be kind to yourself” sounded nice in theory, but I had things to do. And being kind to myself meant I’d fall behind. But now? I’m learning that rest isn’t something you earn after you’ve pushed yourself to the edge. It’s something your body and soul literally require—especially when you're grieving.

It’s wild how grief has forced me to rewire everything I thought I knew about productivity, rest, and what it means to be “doing enough.”

Will this exhaustion last forever? I don’t think so. At least, not in this exact way. But from what I’ve read and what I’ve felt, it doesn’t fully go away either. It shifts. It lightens. It comes in waves. Some days are okay. Some days suck. And some days, like today, I just need to say it out loud: I’m exhausted. And I’m still doing my best.

If you’re feeling this too—this bone-deep, soul-level tired—I see you. I know it feels like you’re supposed to be bouncing back faster, that maybe you're behind or broken or failing. But you're not. You're surviving. And that counts.

This is part of the journey. And even when it’s messy, heavy, and slow… you’re still moving forward.