Standing up on the outside, breaking on the inside

This morning, I woke up with an extra heaviness. I could feel my body didn’t want to get out of bed. As if, despite a full night of sleep, I felt heavy, dragged my feet, and lacked the drive to start my day. I poured myself another coffee to try to get some energy to begin the day. But I didn’t pay much attention to it. After all, I still managed to function well for the rest of the day.

And then, little by little, I noticed that the things that used to make me feel good had less of an effect. I did the same activities, saw the same people, but something inside me had changed. Even though I made an effort to keep smiling, inside, everything felt empty and meaningless. I didn’t feel anything. I told myself it was normal, just a phase that would eventually pass.

Then weeks went by, and that heavinessthat constant fatiguewas increasingly present when I woke up. It began to slow me down in my daily activities. At work, I could no longer do everything. So I stopped taking breaks, I ate lunch at my desk, and I stopped taking the time to talk with my colleagues. I felt overwhelmed by my tasks.

At home, I dragged myself around. I no longer felt like doing my workouts. They became hard, more difficult to complete. I no longer felt like cooking, but I forced myself, because my children needed that structure. So I went for simple, less nutritious meals. I began prioritizing their needs over my responsibilities around the house, because that was what mattered most: my role as a parent.

And sometimes, I woke up in the middle of the night for no reason, and started thinking about all my obligations, all those small things that were slipping through my fingers.

And I kept going, head down, telling myself I could push through. I was caught in the whirlwind of daily life, on autopilot, which kept me from stopping and asking myself questions. In fact, I had started to fear the inner emptiness I felt. So I made sure to stay busy, to always have something productive to do. After all, I had lists piling up. And if I had any free time, I drowned myself in my phone social media, games, anything. All to avoid facing THE thing I still refused to see.

Then I got called into a meeting at work. They told me I had made significant mistakes in my tasks and that I was no longer meeting performance expectations. Yet I was working more and more. I would even log in after my children’s bedtime to finish incomplete tasks. I was confused. I didn’t understand what was happening to me and I started losing confidence in my skills. So I began double-checking my tasks, doubting my abilities, and isolating myself even more.

With time, I felt even more slowed down by my body. It was sending me messages: headaches, digestive issues. I seemed to catch every virus going around and suffer from them even more intensely. I slept less and less. My body no longer wanted to keep up with the pace. Sometimes, I even had a lump in my throat that made it hard to breathe. I started losing patience with the people I loved. I felt anger, sadness, and despair, all at the same time.

At home, I would get upset over nothing. I would yell without being able to control myself. Everything became a mountain. Even thinking about emptying the dishwasher felt overwhelming and complicated.

And then there was the guilt. The guilt of no longer being able to keep up at work, but also the guilt I would feel towards my colleagues if I finally let myself fall apart. The guilt of no longer being able to meet my children’s needs, and even of making them live the emotional roller coasters I was experiencing on the inside. They don’t deserve that. They are only children…

I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I felt ashamed. I was hurting. I was suffering. I couldn’t keep going like that.

It was only with time that I understood. Mental health doesn’t always look the way we imagine. We often think that being unwell means breaking down, crying, not being able to function. But sometimes, being unwell simply means pushing yourself for too long without listening to yourself. It means functioning while slowly disconnecting from who you are.

Today, I understand that you can be unwell without it being noticeable. That you can be high-performing and exhausted at the same time. Capable, yet overwhelmed. Recognizing that is not a weakness. It’s an awakening.