[Writing Exercise] The Burnout

Title: Burnout

I caught my reflection in the microwave door this morning—wild hair, sleep-shadowed eyes, a coffee stain on my shirt I didn’t remember spilling—and thought: this is who he’s mad at.

Not the version of me who laughs too loud or dances in the kitchen barefoot. Not the one who used to plan surprise dinners or whisper stupid jokes under the sheets. He’s mad at this—whatever is left of me after another night of half-sleep and another day of half-existing.

He didn’t yell this time. Just said it plainly, his tone like the edge of a plate you don’t realize is chipped until it slices your skin.

“I’m not going to make plans anymore. You’re always too tired. You don’t care enough to change that.”

I stared at him, blinking slowly, because I didn’t have the energy to argue. I didn’t have the energy for anything.

He said he was giving me everything I wanted by not complaining when I dozed off on him. That he was being merciful. Like silence was a gift.

What he doesn’t see is how much of me has already been given. To work. To the kids. To every half-washed dish and every pair of socks I never remember to match. I’ve been spending myself in pieces, and now the balance is so deep in the red I don’t know what’s left to spend.

And still, I keep falling asleep.

I fall asleep on the couch with the laundry half-folded. I fall asleep during movies the kids beg me to watch. I fall asleep with my mouth open and guilt pooling in the back of my throat. I even fell asleep during Serena’s story the other night, her little hand resting on my knee while she read aloud, her voice softening into disappointment when she realized I was gone again.

I want to fix it. I want to be awake. Present. Enough.

I thought about switching to days. Less physical toll, maybe. A better rhythm. But what if I try that and still fail? What if I finally rearrange everything and still fall short? Then it won’t be the job. It won’t be the hours. It’ll just be me.

And how do you fix you when you’re the broken part?

Some nights, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling fan as it spins, listening for the soft breathing of the kids in their rooms, the occasional creak of the house settling. I press my hand against my chest and wonder if anyone would even recognize me if I stopped holding all of this together. If I just… let go.

But I don’t. I get up. I pack lunches. I scrub the floors. I keep trying.

Because I want to be good. A good wife. A good mother. A good everything. I want to be someone who can stay awake through the credits, someone who laughs without faking it, someone who doesn’t flinch at silence.

But right now? Right now I’m tired. Bone-deep. World-weary.

And the hardest part to admit is that maybe I’m not failing them—maybe I’m just failing me. Because I keep waiting for someone to tell me I’m doing enough, that it’s okay, that I’m allowed to be tired and still be loved.

But that kind of kindness never seems to find its way back to me.

So I move quietly through the day, pretending I don’t hear the anger in his silence, pretending I don’t see the kids’ disappointment when I fade. Pretending the weight on my shoulders is manageable.

Even when it’s not.