The Weight of “Just Tired”
The Strange Grief of Slow Goodbyes
There’s a strange kind of grief that comes with silence — not the silence around us, but the silence inside us.
The one we carry when we smile and say, “I’m fine.”
The one that hides behind, “Just tired.”
Sometimes we don’t say things out loud because speaking them makes them real.
Pain becomes heavier when it’s heard — so we tuck it away, soften our voice, time our laughter, and nod in the right moments.
But behind the quiet is a truth we can’t always name:
We’re not okay.
We’ve been watching life move past us like strangers through glass — still present, but not really seen.
Everything keeps going.
We keep fading.
It’s not always one big moment that breaks us.
Sometimes, it’s the quiet choices.
The way we stop telling people when things hurt.
The way we choose to be useful, instead of vulnerable.
The way we begin to believe that being honest is a burden.
And yet, deep down — there’s still a flicker of hope.
That someone might notice.
That someone might say, “You don’t have to try so hard.”
But even hope can feel dangerous when we’re used to being disappointed. So we hold it inside. Quietly.
That’s why spaces like this matter.
Not because they solve everything. Not because they offer answers.
But because they don’t ask us to perform.
Here, you don’t have to be inspiring.
You don’t have to wrap your feelings in a lesson.
You can just be.
And maybe that’s what we’ve been needing all along —
Not to be fixed.
Not to be told it’ll all get better.
But to be met in our tiredness, our honesty, our trying.
So if this is you — if you’ve been pretending, performing, fading —
this is your reminder:
You don’t have to say it out loud to make it matter.
But if you ever do… this is a safe place to let it land.
Written from somewhere, for someone trying.
Thoughts to explore. Words to let go.
Notes That Found a Home
