You ever just look at something… like a mountain of dishes, just plates piled high, crumbs everywhere, congealed food from the last twenty-four hours, and feel absolutely nothing? Not disgust, not despair, not even the tiny flicker of “Ugh, I *should* do that.” Just… empty. Like the very concept of *doing* has been erased from your operating system. My kid, bless their heart, finally fell asleep, another rough night, another round of meds, another check for breathing. And they’re getting older now, you know? They don’t need me to sing them to sleep anymore, they just need me to be… here. Present. And I am. But sometimes I wonder if the “me” that’s present is just a ghost in the machine, running on fumes and muscle memory. The house is so quiet now, too quiet. The kind of quiet that lets you hear the hum of the fridge and the blood rushing in your ears. It used so much to be chaos, constant noise, constant demands. And now… it’s just the hum. My older ones are off to college, the house is just… a house. My husband, he’s in the other room, probably scrolling, probably watching some show I don’t care about, a stranger in the living room. We exist in parallel universes now, sharing a roof and a history but no longer a present. And that pile of dishes just sits there, a physical manifestation of everything I can’t do anymore. It’s not just the dishes, is it? It’s the bills, the appointments, the calls, the constant vigilance for one child, the silent grief for the others who’ve flown the coop. It’s the absolute lack of… purpose. I spent so long being the doer, the fixer, the one who held it all together, and now that the glue is gone, I’m just… pieces. We’re all just pieces, aren't we? Humans. We spend our whole lives building these intricate structures, these identities around what we *do*, who we *are* for other people. And then one day, the people don’t need you in the same way, or the thing you were doing isn’t there anymore, and you just… crumble. Or maybe not crumble. Maybe you just… *stop*. It’s like my brain has just said “NOPE. Not today, not ever.” I’m not sad, not really. (God, I wish I could feel sad. At least that’s *something*.) It’s more like a profound apathy, a weariness that’s seeped into my bones, into the very marrow. You know that feeling when you're so exhausted, so fundamentally depleted, that even the idea of rest feels like work? Like lying down and closing your eyes is just another task on the endless to-do list? That’s where I am. Staring at these goddamn dishes, and I can’t even summon the will to cry. Just… a vast, silent, empty space inside where all the *doing* used to live. And the dishes aren’t going anywhere. Neither am I.