Lately, I’ve been drowning a little.
Not dramatically.
Not beautifully.
Not in some poetic, cinematic way where the rain falls at exactly the right moment and I suddenly understand the meaning of life.
Just… drowning.
Work has been overwhelming.
I’m trying to prepare for art shows, finish my book, keep up with volunteer commitments, and somehow I also decided it was a good idea to take on a new role with a race event team.
Because apparently my answer to “You have too much on your plate” is:
“What if I add another plate?”
And then there’s the running.
I’m training for a 10K and, if my body cooperates, hopefully a half marathon.
I want to create.
I want to write.
I want to show up.
I want to keep moving forward.
And then my body reminds me that it has opinions of its own.
I’ve been dealing with dysautonomia, which means my heart rate, blood pressure, blood sugar, and nervous system can sometimes decide to behave like a flock of startled crows.
I’ve been feeling crummy.
Anxious.
Exhausted.
Overwhelmed.
And lately, even the simplest things can feel like they require more energy than I have available.
So I do what I have always done.
I tell myself to push harder.
Don’t stop.
Don’t quit.
Keep going.
I can. I will.
I repeat those words like a battle cry.
I can.
I will.
I can.
I will.
As though stopping means losing.
As though resting means weakness.
As though if I slow down for even a moment, everything I’ve worked so hard to build will come crashing down around me.
Somewhere along the way, I confused perseverance with constant motion.
I started believing that strength meant never needing a break.
That resilience meant getting back up immediately.
That if I was tired, I simply needed to try harder.
But I’m beginning to wonder…
What if there is another sentence I need to learn?
Not instead of I can. I will.
But alongside it.
I can. I will. I will rest.
Maybe rest isn’t the opposite of resilience.
Maybe rest is one of the things that makes resilience possible.
The body needs somewhere to put all the things we ask of it.
It needs sleep.
It needs nourishment.
It needs stillness.
It needs recovery.
It needs room to breathe.
Even fire needs fuel.
Even wings need to fold.
Even the strongest crow cannot stay in the sky forever.
Eventually, the crow has to land.
And maybe that is the part I’ve been afraid of.
I’m afraid that if I land, I won’t fly again.
Afraid that if I stop working, I’ll fall behind.
If I stop creating, I’ll lose my creativity.
If I stop training, I’ll lose my strength.
If I stop pushing, I’ll lose my momentum.
If I rest, maybe I’ll become comfortable there.
But perhaps that is the lie exhaustion tells us.
It convinces us that stopping is permanent.
That a pause is an ending.
That rest is failure.
But a landing isn’t the end of a flight.
It is simply where the crow goes to gather enough strength for the next one.
So maybe today I don’t need another command to push myself harder.
Maybe I need permission to put down some of the weight.
To sit quietly for a while.
To let the unfinished things remain unfinished.
To accept that the book can wait a little longer.
The art can wait.
The emails can wait.
The race training can wait.
The world, despite its remarkable ability to make us believe otherwise, will probably keep spinning if I take a breath.
I don’t have to earn rest by reaching the point of complete collapse.
I don’t have to prove that I am strong enough to break myself.
And I don’t have to turn myself into a machine just because there are things I want to accomplish.
I am not a machine.
I am a body.
A mind.
A heart.
A human being trying to carry a whole flock of dreams.
And sometimes the most courageous thing I can do is admit:
I am tired.
So tonight, little crow, land.
Fold your wings.
You don’t have to fly today.
The sky will still be there tomorrow.
And when you’re ready—
you can rise again.
Not because you forced yourself to.
But because you gave yourself enough room to.
I can.
I will.
And sometimes, I will rest.
Because the crow only flies for so long.
And even the crow deserves a place to land.
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