Sunday night was great, we ate too much, laughed just enough, and I finally met Mark. He’s lovely—easygoing, warm—and seeing Shani again felt good. There’s a calm to her that I envy a little.
Tilly learned that dinner with grown-ups isn’t quite the glittering event she imagined—but she handled it beautifully. Entertaining herself, sprinkling in her little sparks of personality, holding court in her own funny, bright way. I was proud of her. She shone in that way only she can.
For a while, I forgot how exhausted I was.
For a while, I let myself just be there.
And then the drive home came—and with it, the backlash.
My body gave me away, like it always does.
The stress that’s been clawing at me all week finally broke through.
I threw up.
That’s what happens when the chaos in my head boils over: it spills into my skin, my stomach, my bones.
Like my body has to purge what my mind can’t hold anymore.
Monday was worse.
The burnout I’ve been skirting for weeks finally slammed into me like a wall.
I got to work running on fumes, pushed through the first few hours like I always do—but by 11am, I was done.
Not tired.
Not sleepy.
Done.
Every inch of me ached.
A migraine crouched behind my eyes, waiting to strike.
And my anxiety—the constant hum—turned into a siren.
So I did something I hate doing:
I stopped.
I went home.
I didn’t even make it to bed—I collapsed on the sofa, shoes still on.
And then I slept like the dead for three hours, because my body had nothing left to give.
It’s scary, how far I push before I let myself break.
And even scarier to admit—I can’t keep doing this.