My cup is dry.
And I don’t mean that metaphorically.
I mean I have nothing left. Not a drop. Not a margin. Not a moment to pause and say, “Let me breathe.” Because even breathing feels indulgent when your world is falling apart in slow motion and you’re still expected to keep up with the pace of a life you no longer recognise.
I’m unraveling.
But I can’t unravel.
There’s too much to do.
Too many things depending on me being okay.
Too many people who assume I always figure it out.
Too many masks I’ve worn for too long that don’t come off easily without someone asking, “What happened?”
And I don’t have the energy to explain what happened.
Because everything happened.
The job I tolerated for the sake of stability—gone.
The house that was meant to be a reset—another burden.
The money I thought I could count on—evaporating.
The support systems I thought I could lean on—quiet, distant, distracted, or simply not there.
The body that carried me—tired in ways I can’t even explain anymore.
And still, I move.
Still, I answer emails and messages.
Still, I negotiate rent and calculate utility bills and think about next steps like a responsible adult who hasn’t been crying in the bathroom or staring at the ceiling at 3am wondering how everything became this hard.
I don’t need advice.
I don’t need “perspective.”
I need to say this without being told it will pass.
Because maybe it will.
Maybe it won’t.
But right now, in this moment, I need permission to fall apart a little.
To admit that I’m scared.
That the version of me who always bounces back is tired.
That I don’t want to build something new right now.
I want to feel held—without having to be strong, useful, or wise in return.
But here’s the sick part.
Even as I say this, a part of me is still thinking about how this sounds.
How to make it coherent.
How to make my pain palatable.
Because that’s what survival has taught me: if you’re going to bleed, do it beautifully.
Dress it up.
Make it meaningful.
Make it worth something.
But today?
I’m not dressing it up.
I’m not finding meaning.
I’m just tired.
And no, I’m not okay.
I’m not suicidal.
I’m just… done.
Done being the one who pushes through.
Done being the one who makes everything make sense.
Done being the dependable one while quietly disintegrating inside.
If I don’t show up tomorrow, it’s not because I gave up.
It’s because I need a day to fall apart.
Or sleep.
Or scream into a pillow.
Or just sit in silence and not fix a damn thing.
I don’t need saving.
I just need to be allowed to not perform for a while.
To not explain.
To not make it okay for others.
I need to know that if I put everything down—every mask, every role, every project—
I’ll still be me.
And that’s enough.
Even if I’m not functioning.
Even if I’m not producing.
Even if I’m not fixing anything at all.
Just me.
Empty cup.
Still here.