Waking Up Exhausted: When You’re Living in Mental Survival Mode

I wake up tired. Not the kind of tired that a strong cup of coffee can fix, or the kind that sleep alone can cure.

This is something else.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones, into the corners of your mind, into the silence of your routines. The kind that stays with you even when you sleep eight hours. The kind that doesn’t scream—it just weighs.

Every morning, I bring my kids to school, smile when I can, nod at teachers and other parents, pretend I’m okay. One of my children is on the autism spectrum, which means our mornings often come with a different kind of pressure—more emotional labor, more unpredictability, more patience. And I try to carry it all without complaint, because that’s what love demands. I clock into work, solve QA issues with a tired brain that still tries to stay sharp. I log off, pick my kids up, then switch gears again—this time to build a blog I hope will someday give me more time, more freedom, more peace.

But I’m not just the QA anymore. Since my last QA teammate resigned, I’ve had to shoulder the entire backlog—while also trying to keep up with my responsibilities as PM. I’m supposed to be reviewing production reports from the team, analyzing progress, driving alignment… but I can’t even get to those because I’m stuck fixing what was left behind.

And most days, there is no reward. No peace. Just another round.

Another day of being the strong one. The responsible one. The one who doesn’t get to be sick, doesn’t get to break down, doesn’t get to rest.

And the worst part? The world doesn’t see this pain. It only sees what you produce.

I keep hoping each day will be calm.

That I won’t open my laptop to a wall of Slack pings, or a regression failure, or some random outage that derails my entire schedule. But there’s always something. There’s always a fire to put out, even when my mental fuel is gone.

There are moments I sit at my desk in the evening, the house finally quiet, kids asleep, a blank page blinking at me. And I’m staring, not because I don’t have anything to say—but because my mind has nothing left to give.

I’m tired.

But I can’t stop.

There’s a scene in Hacksaw Ridge I think about often. Desmond Doss, surrounded by chaos, bruised and battered, looks up and whispers a prayer:

“Please… just one more.”

One more soldier to save. One more step. One more moment of purpose.

He wasn’t asking for glory. He was praying for strength—enough to do the right thing, one more time.

That’s what this feels like. Not on a battlefield of bullets, but in the quiet trenches of daily life. With your kids depending on you. Your team expecting you to deliver. Your dreams pulling you forward even when your soul is dragging behind.

And in those moments when I want to collapse, I pray the same thing:

“Please… just one more.”

One more blog. One more bedtime story. One more bug fixed. One more dinner cooked with love, even if I’m too tired to eat.

Because I don’t want to give up. I just want it to be enough.

But maybe the problem isn’t that I’m not doing enough. Maybe I’m just filling the cup wrong.

There’s this old metaphor about life being like a jar. If you fill it with sand first—the emails, the noise, the tiny tasks—there’s no space left for the things that matter.

But if you start with the big stones—your health, your family, your purpose—then add the pebbles, and only then pour in the sand… everything fits.

The jar is still full. But now it holds what matters.

(I first heard this from a short video online, based on a story often told by a philosophy professor. It’s been shared in many versions over the years, but the message always hits: if you fill your life in the wrong order, there won’t be space for what matters most.)

Here’s How I’m Reordering My Cup:

🪨 Stone #1: Boundaries That Actually Protect Me

• I’m learning to say no to late-night requests that aren’t urgent
• I block quiet hours during the day to recover my mind, not just my to-do list
• I no longer apologize for needing space to breathe

🪨 Stone #2: Micro-Routines That Refuel Me

• A 10-minute walk without a phone
• Sitting beside my kids without multitasking
• Eating one meal a day like it matters

🪨 Stone #3: Redefining What Progress Means

• Some days, survival is the win
• Not every day needs a milestone—some just need closure
• My dreams matter, but they can wait if it means I don’t break

So no, I’m not going to tell you that this is easy. It’s not.

But it is fixable.

You are not broken. You are not weak. You are tired. And you’re trying to fill a cup that has been upside down for too long.

Turn it over. Put the big stones in first.

Then whisper your own prayer, in your own way: “Please… just one more.”

And then do it.

Just one more. And let that be enough.

To my kids, my wife, and even my future self—if you ever read this:

It’s okay.

I love you, no matter what.

I was never asking for perfection. I just needed a little more grace. A little more understanding on the days I couldn’t smile, or when I fell asleep sitting up, mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-dream.

I carried so much in silence. Not because I wanted to be a martyr— but because I believed it was my duty to protect you from the weight.

And even if I never got it all right… I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.

So if this helps you see the version of me you didn’t always notice, that’s all I ever wanted.

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