When Everything Feels Like Too Much
Some weeks don’t arrive with a single breaking point—they just keep adding weight. That’s what this one felt like. Every day brought another responsibility, another decision, another thing that needed attention while my body and spirit were already stretched thin. I kept telling myself to push through, to stay focused, to keep moving forward. But underneath all of that was a quieter truth: I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and running out of margin. Still, night after night, I found myself whispering the same words—Thank you, Lord. Not because everything was okay, but because I knew I was seen, held, and carried even when the burden felt too heavy to manage on my own.
The weight came from all directions at once. Logistics, expectations, interruptions, decisions that needed to be made quickly and carried carefully. My body was hurting, my patience was thin, and there was very little space to recover between one responsibility and the next. I kept telling myself that if I could just stay ahead of it all—if I could push a little harder, move a little faster, hold it together—things would settle down. That’s always been my instinct: meet pressure with effort, exhaustion with discipline, overwhelm with grit. But this week, that strategy stopped working.
There wasn’t a dramatic collapse or a clear decision to stop. It was quieter than that. I just noticed that my body was no longer cooperating with my determination. The pain was louder. My nerves were fried. My emotions were closer to the surface. And instead of helping, pushing only made everything feel heavier. I slowed down not because I wanted to, but because something in me needed relief. It wasn’t about willpower or attitude—I was simply out of room to keep carrying things the same way I always had.
So instead of pushing, I started paying attention to how I cope when things feel like too much. I numb out. I go on autopilot. I stay busy so I don’t have to feel how overwhelmed and behind I am. I default to anger because it’s easier than grief or fear. None of that feels particularly enlightened or aspirational—it’s just how I get through. But this week, even in the numbing, I noticed something new. I noticed when my body was asking for relief instead of discipline—when what I needed wasn’t more willpower or grit, but rest, quiet, and care. And sometimes, in the middle of all that messiness, I chose to stay present for a few moments longer than usual—not to fix anything, but to acknowledge that I was hurting. Some nights that looked like collapsing into bed and handing the exhaustion to God with nothing more than a whispered thank you. I didn’t stay perfectly. I just stayed enough to not abandon myself completely.
What this week revealed is how easily I confuse presence with performance. I’m good at showing up, producing results, and holding things together—especially when people are watching. But presence asks for something else entirely. It asks me to listen instead of impress, to notice instead of endure, to be honest instead of competent. This week stripped away my ability to perform strength, and in its place, I was invited to simply be present—imperfect, tired, and real.
I don’t feel triumphant coming out of this week. I feel tired. My body still hurts. The uncertainty hasn’t gone anywhere. And there are no clean answers waiting on the other side of all this. But I also notice that I didn’t disappear. I didn’t pretend I was fine when I wasn’t. I stayed. And maybe that’s what thriving looks like right now—not forward motion, not clarity, not strength on display, but presence. Choosing to remain honest. Choosing to rest when pushing fails. Choosing to trust that God meets me here, in the unfinished and the overwhelmed, just as faithfully as He does in the moments that look like success.
Maybe the invitation moving forward isn’t to do more, be better, or figure anything out. Maybe it’s simply to stop asking myself for what I don’t have right now. To move through the coming days with a little less force and a little more grace. To let rest count. To let unfinished things be unfinished. To trust that staying present—even imperfectly—is enough for this season. If I can do that, even just a little, then maybe that’s where hope lives—not in fixing the mess, but in knowing I don’t have to carry it alone.
