I’ve been a social worker for, oh, thirty-odd years now, which means I've spent more time listening to other people's existential dread than I have my own, which is a habit I picked up early, I think, after the divorce. That was…a doozy. One day you’re married, living in a house with a dog and a garden, the next you’re 50, single, and half your friends have decided they just *can’t* be seen with someone who "let their marriage fall apart." Honestly, it taught me a lot about selective empathy, though I certainly wouldn't have called it that at the time. More like, "Oh, so *that’s* what a fair-weather friend looks like." Anyway, I rebuilt. Got a little apartment, worked hard, became, dare I say, quite good at this job. I prided myself on my capacity for genuine connection, my ability to hold space for suffering, even when my own was a bit…untidy. But lately, and by lately I mean the last few years, it’s like there’s this lead blanket draped over everything. I sleep, really, I do, a solid seven, eight hours most nights. My Fitbit even tells me my REM cycles are *chef's kiss*. And yet, every morning, I wake up feeling like I ran a marathon in my sleep. Not even a good marathon, mind you, one of those really muddy, uphill ones where you trip over a root every ten feet. It’s not just physical, though the fatigue manifests there too, in the slow drag of my feet, the way my eyelids feel heavy even when I’ve just opened them. It’s deeper. It’s like my spirit is just…worn thin. When a client is sharing something profoundly difficult, something that would usually stir me to the core, I find myself having to consciously *force* the empathetic response. It’s there, intellectually, I know what I *should* feel, but the visceral reaction, the wellspring of genuine, unfeigned concern, it feels like it’s been reduced to a trickle. Like my emotional reservoir is perpetually low, no matter how much I try to refill it. Am I the only one who feels this way? This profound, bone-deep exhaustion that isn't cured by rest? This sense that the well has simply run dry, and you’re just…going through the motions? I’m 47, which is not ancient, but it’s certainly not young. And the idea of another twenty years of feeling like this, of having to summon the very essence of my profession from an empty tank…it's disheartening, to say the least. It makes me wonder if I've simply reached a point of compassion fatigue, or if this is something else entirely. Perhaps a late-stage existential crisis masquerading as simple tiredness. God, I hope not. I’ve had enough crises to last me several lifetimes, thank you very much. Anyone else ever feel like they’re just perpetually treading water, even when they’re standing on dry land? It's like my system has just had *enough*.