I keep telling myself I’ll write. That I’ll paint something just for me. That I’ll sit in the sun with a cup of tea and do nothing but sip and breathe. But lately, I’m caught in that familiar tangle of too much to do, and never quite enough me to go round.
The past couple of weeks have been especially demanding. I’ve had to travel into Manchester for something official—nothing dramatic, just important and unavoidable. It’s been tiring, both physically and mentally. Trains, traffic, the quiet tension of waiting rooms and ticking clocks. All the while, my disabled dog needs more care than usual—gentle lifting, regular medication, constant awareness of whether she’s comfortable or not. I love her to pieces, but the truth is, it’s exhausting.
Then there’s the print site, which never really sleeps. Managing tags, updates, posts, helping other artists—it’s rewarding, but it’s also a hungry beast that’s always nibbling at the edges of my day. I haven’t written in ages. Not properly. Not that kind of deep, immersive writing where time disappears and the characters start talking back. I miss it fiercely, but I can’t seem to get there. Not right now.
Sometimes I do try. I’ll lie on my bed with a book in hand, telling myself, Just an hour, just a chapter. But my body knows better. I read one page, maybe two… and I’m gone. Fast asleep. Book sliding to the floor. I wake up groggy and annoyed with myself—annoyed for resting, even though I clearly needed it.
Isn’t that strange? How we punish ourselves for being tired, even when we’ve done nothing but give and give all day? I think that’s the hardest part—fighting the guilt of not being productive, while knowing I’m already stretched too thin.
So this post isn’t a promise to do better. It’s not a productivity hack. It’s just me, sharing where I’m at. A bit worn down. A bit frayed at the edges. Still here, still loving what I do, but also quietly hoping for a week—or even just a day—where I can be still and not immediately fall asleep from it.
To anyone else juggling a thousand things while missing the quiet parts of themselves… I see you. We’ll get there. Maybe not this week, maybe not even next. But eventually. There’s still magic waiting—books to be written, paintings to be made, dogs to be cuddled, and maybe, just maybe, a full chapter read in peace.
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Restful thoughts for you and so many of us that can relate to this piece!