Remembering Anxiety

in life's transitions

Growing up, my parents would discourage my brother and I to use foul language with the justification that there were better ways to describe how you’re feeling, or better words to emphasize these said feelings. I used to blindly agree, just for their satisfaction and approval. But after becoming a mom, I can proudly say, with confidence, that no other word can be a better emphasizer in this sentence: I’m fucking tired.

This has become my natural state of being, so my capacity for fatigue has grown, of course. Some days, everything that has been holding me together emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, all decides to hide in the cracks and folds of my newly squishy, postpartum skin. Some days, even the giggles and snuggles of my sweet smelling babe can’t get me out of the fog of jaded living. Some days, even in completing a satisfactory amount of items on my endless “get-to-do” list (cause fuck an authoritarian “to-do” list), I don’t feel like I’ve done enough to contribute to my small world of other humans and other species, and definitely not enough to justify the amount of sleep that my body craves.