I have this friend, well, acquaintance really. He’s a foreman at a big construction site down the road from where I grew up. He’s like, late thirties, early forties maybe. And he always seems… stressed. Like, REALLY stressed. Whenever I run into him, which isn't often these days, but when I do, he’s always complaining about his crew. How they’re idiots. How they can’t do anything right. How he has to redo everything himself. He makes it sound like they're actively trying to mess things up, like they're all incompetent on purpose. And honestly, for a long time, I just accepted it. I mean, he’s the boss, right? He knows what he’s talking about. I figured, yeah, construction must be full of people who aren’t paying attention or whatever. I used to nod along, maybe offer some sympathetic noise. Because that’s what you do. You listen to people vent about their day, about their frustrations, and you let them feel heard. We all do it. We all need to feel heard. But then I saw him at the grocery store a few weeks ago, and he looked… different. More tired than usual. His eyes were kind of red-rimmed, like he hadn’t slept in days. And he was still going on about his crew, but this time it was even more intense. He was practically spitting fire about how lazy they were, how he had to stay late AGAIN because someone messed up a delivery order. He kept clenching his fists, and his whole body just seemed tight, wound up. And that’s when it hit me. Like a ton of bricks. We were talking, and he said something about not having taken a single day off in three years. THREE YEARS. He said it so casually, like it was a badge of honor, like that was just how things were. And I just stared at him. Because suddenly, all the pieces clicked into place. It wasn't his crew. It was HIM. He’s just so burnt out. So completely, utterly DRAINED. And instead of acknowledging that, instead of maybe realizing that he needs a break, he’s projecting all of that onto other people. He’s blaming them for his own exhaustion, for his own terrible mood. He sees their normal human errors, which, let's be real, happen on ANY job, and he blows them up into these massive betrayals because he has no emotional reserves left to deal with anything calmly. He’s running on fumes, and he’s taking it out on everyone around him. And it just made me think… how often do we do that? As humans, I mean. We get overwhelmed, we get pushed to our absolute limits, and instead of stopping, instead of taking a breath, we find an external reason for our unhappiness. It’s easier, isn't it? To point the finger at someone else, at something else, than to admit that we’re the ones who are past our breaking point. To admit that we need help, or a rest, or just to step away for a bit. I mean, I get it. I really do. Being a stay-at-home parent, especially with a toddler, it’s like a never-ending cycle sometimes. There are days when I haven't had a minute to myself, not a single one, and I find myself snapping at my partner over something tiny, something that wouldn't even register on a normal day. And then later I feel that awful guilt, that crushing feeling that I’m being unfair, that it wasn’t about the dirty dish, it was about me feeling invisible all day, about the constant demands, about losing myself in a sea of baby wipes and laundry. I guess seeing him, my old acquaintance, just made me realize how easy it is to fall into that trap. To construct a narrative where everyone else is the problem, because the truth, the truth that we’re just worn out, that we need a break, feels… I don’t know… weak? Like admitting defeat? When really, it’s probably the strongest thing we could do. To actually listen to what our own bodies, our own minds, are trying to tell us. Before we lash out and hurt people who don’t deserve it. Before we become that person, constantly angry, constantly blaming, and never actually stopping to breathe.