I’m 47 and I’m just… tired. Bone tired. Not the kind of tired you feel after a long shift, or even a bad night’s sleep, because I sleep. Oh, I sleep. Eight, nine hours sometimes. But I wake up and it’s still there, this deep ache in my bones, like I’ve been running all night, like my soul is just dragging itself through quicksand. And it’s affecting everything. Especially my clients. I’m a social worker, have been for over twenty years. It used to be my calling, you know? Like, I felt a spark when I helped someone, when I saw that shift in their eyes. Now, it’s just… another face. Another story. And I feel AWFUL for saying that. Like, truly awful. I’ll be sitting there, listening to someone pouring their heart out about, I don’t know, their abusive ex or their kid who’s spiraling, and inside my head I’m just picturing my bed. My pillow. Or worse, the half-finished canvas leaning in my studio apartment, gathering dust. I mean, I don't even — whatever. It’s been getting worse the past few years. My creativity, it used to be my escape. My painting, my pottery… that’s where I could just *be*. But the bills stack up, right? The student loans from my *art degree* that my parents kept telling me was a mistake, *“You need a real job, darling.”* So I got a real job. A good job, a helping-people job. And for a while, it was enough. The painting was just for me, on the side. But now? The side is screaming louder than the main event. My hands just itch to create, but my body is too heavy to even lift a brush. My supervisor, she asked me the other day, "Are you alright, [my name]? You seem a little distant." And I just smiled, a big fake smile, and said, "Just a bit overwhelmed with the caseload, you know how it is!" And she nodded, because she *does* know how it is. But it’s not the caseload. It’s me. It’s this hollowed-out feeling. Like I’m running on empty, but the gas tank says full. And I’m 47. Retirement is looming, not quite there, but I can feel it. And all I can think is, did I do this all wrong? Did I choose the practicality over the passion and now I’m paying for it with… this? This constant, crushing fatigue? I feel like a fraud. Telling people to find their strength, to keep going, to believe in themselves, when I can barely believe in the power of getting out of bed some mornings. I’m not even sure what I’m asking for here. Absolution? Understanding? Maybe just a whisper that I’m not the only one who feels like they’ve lost something essential along the way, something that sleep just can’t fix.