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ATheologyoftheTiredPoems
I am the oldest— the blueprint no one admits they’re copying, the backbone that isn’t supposed to ache, the glue that holds even when it’s starting to crack. I am the example— which means I am watched, measured, quietly expected to get it right without ever being shown how. No one really asks how I’m doing— not in a way that waits for the honest answer. They don’t see what it costs to keep showing up, to hold everything steady with hands that are tired of shaking. I have never really stopped. Even my rest feels borrowed, like I have to justify it. They call it weakness when I step back— when I take a Sabbath, when I choose to breathe instead of break. But if we’re meant to rest, why does it feel wrong when I do? Even the people meant to guide me— professors, friends, mentors— don’t always understand. They don’t see the weight, only that I’m doing things differently. They question my choices, my timing, my calling— like there’s only one right way to become who I’m meant to be. And I wonder— why does everything have to be right or wrong? Is being different so bad? Is needing a mental health day really failure? When it all builds up, I find myself at the altar— quiet at first, then not at all. I cry because I need to, because it’s the only way to let the pressure out without breaking everything around me. And sometimes that’s the only time people notice— when I’m already overwhelmed, when things start slipping, when I don’t have anything left to give. But most days, I’m still giving everything I have. Even when it’s hard to get out of bed, to show up to class, to take care of myself— I try. I try because I care, because I’ve always cared, because being the oldest taught me how. There’s a part of me that wants to leave— to follow the calling in my chest, to build a life that feels like mine. But I’ve always been needed here. And sometimes it feels like wanting something different isn’t allowed. Still— I’m starting to wonder what I want. Not what’s expected. Not what’s easiest for everyone else. Just… me. And somewhere in the quiet, in the middle of all this weight, there is a voice that doesn’t demand— only invites: come to Me, all who are weary, all who are carrying too much, and I will give you rest. Not more expectations, not another standard to meet— just rest. A place to set it down, to loosen my grip, to let Someone stronger carry what I was never meant to hold alone. I’m learning that maybe I can rest without failing, that maybe I can take a step back and still be someone people can trust. I’m learning that I don’t have to carry everything to be strong. That being human doesn’t make me weak. And maybe I don’t have to be perfect to be worthy— not to them, and not to God. Maybe being seen by Him means I don’t have to prove so much. Maybe it’s okay to take things one step at a time, to listen for His voice instead of everyone else’s. I don’t have it all figured out. I still feel the weight. But I’m trying— to rest when I need to, to breathe when it’s heavy, to believe that I am allowed to take up space in my own life. And maybe that’s where it starts— not with letting everything go, but with learning, slowly, that even here, even now— I was never carrying it alone.
0
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 8:27 PM UTC
I Was Never Carrying It Alone
I am the oldest— the blueprint no one admits they’re copying, the backbone that isn’t supposed to ache, the glue that holds even when it’s starting to crack. I am the example— which means I am watched, measured, quietly expected to get it right without ever being shown how. No one really asks how I’m doing— not in a way that waits for the honest answer. They don’t see what it costs to keep showing up, to hold everything steady with hands that are tired of shaking. I have never really stopped. Even my rest feels borrowed, like I have to justify it. They call it weakness when I step back— when I take a Sabbath, when I choose to breathe instead of break. But if we’re meant to rest, why does it feel wrong when I do? Even the people meant to guide me— professors, friends, mentors— don’t always understand. They don’t see the weight, only that I’m doing things differently. They question my choices, my timing, my calling— like there’s only one right way to become who I’m meant to be. And I wonder— why does everything have to be right or wrong? Is being different so bad? Is needing a mental health day really failure? When it all builds up, I find myself at the altar— quiet at first, then not at all. I cry because I need to, because it’s the only way to let the pressure out without breaking everything around me. And sometimes that’s the only time people notice— when I’m already overwhelmed, when things start slipping, when I don’t have anything left to give. But most days, I’m still giving everything I have. Even when it’s hard to get out of bed, to show up to class, to take care of myself— I try. I try because I care, because I’ve always cared, because being the oldest taught me how. There’s a part of me that wants to leave— to follow the calling in my chest, to build a life that feels like mine. But I’ve always been needed here. And sometimes it feels like wanting something different isn’t allowed. Still— I’m starting to wonder what I want. Not what’s expected. Not what’s easiest for everyone else. Just… me. And somewhere in the quiet, in the middle of all this weight, there is a voice that doesn’t demand— only invites: come to Me, all who are weary, all who are carrying too much, and I will give you rest. Not more expectations, not another standard to meet— just rest. A place to set it down, to loosen my grip, to let Someone stronger carry what I was never meant to hold alone. I’m learning that maybe I can rest without failing, that maybe I can take a step back and still be someone people can trust. I’m learning that I don’t have to carry everything to be strong. That being human doesn’t make me weak. And maybe I don’t have to be perfect to be worthy— not to them, and not to God. Maybe being seen by Him means I don’t have to prove so much. Maybe it’s okay to take things one step at a time, to listen for His voice instead of everyone else’s. I don’t have it all figured out. I still feel the weight. But I’m trying— to rest when I need to, to breathe when it’s heavy, to believe that I am allowed to take up space in my own life. And maybe that’s where it starts— not with letting everything go, but with learning, slowly, that even here, even now— I was never carrying it alone.
Written by
ATheologyoftheTired
20
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 8:27 PM UTC
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