Stuck in the Gaps

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from hard work.

It’s not from working full time.

It’s not from caring for children.

It’s not from managing a home, or even two.

That kind of tired has structure. It has purpose. You can see what you’ve done at the end of the day.

This is different.

This is the exhaustion of sitting in the gaps.

The space between mental health and physical health.

The space where symptoms don’t fit neatly into one box.

The space where services don’t talk to each other, and no one quite takes responsibility.

It’s the constant loop:

in and out of hospital,

in and out of conversations,

in and out of systems that are meant to help, but somehow don’t meet in the middle.

It’s advocating, explaining, repeating.

Telling the same story again.

Pushing for urgency while being told to wait.

Holding it all together while things feel like they’re quietly falling apart.

That’s what’s exhausting.

Not the doing,

the battling.

And as if that kind of tired isn’t enough, the nights aren’t even giving relief.

A nicotine patch was meant to help but instead it’s brought vivid, chaotic dreams that run all night long.

The kind that feel real, unsettling, relentless.

So even sleep isn’t rest right now. Just another layer of exhaustion to carry into the day.

There’s a particular cruelty in watching someone you love sit in that space, knowing they need help, knowing help exists, and still feeling like you’re trying to bridge something that shouldn’t even be broken.

And yet, here we are.

Still showing up.

Still pushing.

Still holding the line.

Because what else do you do when it’s your child?

So today, it’s Friday.

And that matters, not because anything magically fixes itself, but because even the smallest pause counts.

A breath.

A moment.

A line drawn under a week that asked too much.