You hit your late forties and suddenly the world decides you’re an extra in your own life. Remember that feeling? Like you’re just… observing. And then the exhaustion starts. Not the "didn’t sleep well" kind. No, you could have eight, nine hours of uninterrupted, dreamless oblivion, wake up, and still feel like you’ve been physically hauling bricks all night. It’s a full-body sigh, a cellular weariness that hums beneath your skin. You wonder if your mitochondria are just on strike. It’s particularly charming when you're a social worker. Because your entire job description hinges on being present, being engaged, offering a steady, reassuring presence to people who are, understandably, completely falling apart. You find yourself nodding, making the right noises, formulating perfectly empathetic responses, all while a little voice in your head is screaming, "Just let me lie down on this incredibly sterile office floor." You try to laugh it off, tell yourself it’s just… perimenopause, a biological prank. But the humor thins after the third client asks if you’re "alright, you look a bit… drained." Oh, the irony. You start developing coping mechanisms, of course. Caffeine becomes a personal friend, a deep, abiding relationship. You meticulously schedule breaks, even if it’s just five minutes staring blankly at a wall, willing your brain to reboot. You meticulously plan your weekends, because if you don't conserve every last Joule of energy, you simply won't survive the next work week. You become a master of the polite, energy-saving smile. The trick is to look genuinely concerned without actually expending the emotional capital to *feel* genuinely concerned. You know, just enough. And then there are the moments when it slips. When a client is describing something truly awful, truly heartbreaking, and your internal monologue is just… "Can we wrap this up? I need a nap." And the wave of self-loathing that follows that thought is almost as exhausting as the fatigue itself. You’re supposed to be better than that. You’re supposed to be the pillar. But you’re starting to feel less like a pillar and more like a dilapidated garden gnome, chipping away piece by piece. You see your reflection and it's like a stranger, the face tired, the eyes… flat. Is this what becoming invisible feels like? Because it feels a lot like being perpetually tired. You try to pinpoint when it started, this pervasive dullness. Was it when your period decided to become an unreliable house guest? Was it the culmination of decades of absorbing other people's pain? You used to have reserves, a well of resilience. Now it feels like a dusty puddle at the bottom of a cracked bucket. Sometimes you just wonder if this is it. This is the new normal. And you try to find the dark comedy in it, because what else is there, really? You’re tired. Just so, so tired.