Sometimes I just sit in the car in the driveway, engine off, keys still in the ignition, and I stare out through the windshield, not really lookin at anything. Just sitting there. Not because I'm too tired to walk inside, but because I’m too emotionally tired to face the silence that waits for me in that house. I’m 38 years old, married for almost ten years, and every day feels heavier than the last. My job takes every bit of my time and energy. The meetings, the deadlines, the constant emails at midnight—it never stops. And the irony is, I worked sooooo hard to get here, to build a career I could be proud of. But now that I have it, all I can feel is empty. I don’t feel proud, I feel worn out. I feel like I gave everything I had just to be in a place that doesn’t even fulfill me anymore.

And then there’s my marriage. We don’t fight, not really. But we don’t laugh much anymore either. We talk about the groceries, the bills, who’s picking up dinner. But we don’t talk about us. We haven’t in a long time. He’s a good man, dependable, quiet, never cruel—but there’s just no spark left. Maybe there never really was and I convinced myself the stability was love. Maybe we just got older and forgot how to connect. Whatever it is, it’s gone now. He sleeps on his side of the bed, I sleep on mine. We don’t touch. We don’t share dreams. And worst of all, I don’t even feel sad about it anymore. I just feel numb. Like I already mourned it years ago, silently, and now I’m just existing in the after.

There was a time when I wanted kids more than anything. I'd look at mothers pushing strollers at the park and my heart would ache. I tolld myself I’d try “next year,” once things slowed down. But they never did. There was always another promotion to chase, another work trip, another long night at the office. And now? Now I don’t even know if it’s physically possible. And even if it was, I don’t know how I’d manage. Bringing a child into this life would be like dropping them into the middle of chaos. I wouldn’t have time to give them what they deserve. And deep down, I don’t think I’d want to do it with him. Not like this. Not when I already feel like I’m holding myself together with tape.

It’s a weird kind of grief, mourning the life you thought you’d have while still living the one you built. I scroll through social media and see people with their families, their toddlers painting messy art, their husbands kissing their cheeks, and I feel this sharp mix of envy and regret. I want to scream at my younger self, tell her to slow down, to not wait so long. To make different choices. But I can’t change the past, and the future feels like a narrow hallway with no doors. I don’t know what comes next. I can’t even imagine it. All I know is that I’m tired. Not just tired like I need sleep—but tired in my soul. Tired in my bones.

Sometimes people at work say things like “you’re so strong” or “you’ve got it all together” and I wanna laugh. If they only knew. If they knew how many nights I sit on the bathroom floor with the shower running so he won’t hear me cry. How many times I’ve opened my mouth to say “I’m not okay” and swallowed it back down. How often I wonder what it would feel like to just leave. To star t over somewhere new. But I don’t. I stay. Because it’s easier. Because change is scary. Because I tell myself it’s too late, even if some small part of me still hopes it’s not.

So here I am. Thirty-eight, successful on paper, stuck in a quiet marriage, childless not by choice exactly, but by exhaustion. I don’t need anyone to rescue me. I don’t even need anyone to fix it. I just wish someone could sit next to me and say, “I see you. I know you’re tired. And it’s okay.” Because right now, all I’ve got is this weight on my chest and a life that looks fine from the outside but feels so empty inside. I’m not falling apart exactly—I’m just emotionally tired. Too tired to keep pretending everything’s fine. Too tired to know what to do next.

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