You're tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. Something deeper. Heavier. The kind that sits in your bones even after a full eight hours.
You've tried everything. Better routines. More water. Less caffeine. Boundaries. Rest.
Still tired.
Here's a question nobody asks: How much energy are you spending just... monitoring yourself?
Think about it.
The quick scan when you walk into a room — how am I being perceived right now? The mental math before you speak — is this too much? Too loud? Too confident? The constant, invisible calibration of your presence to make sure you're not making anyone uncomfortable.
You're not just living your life. You're narrating it, editing it, and adjusting it in real time. For an audience that never asked for a performance but somehow always gets one.
That's exhausting.
Not the work. Not the responsibilities. Not the full calendar.
The shrinking.
The calibration.
The thousand tiny decisions per day about how much of yourself is acceptable to show.
We don't talk about this exhaustion because it doesn't look like anything. You're not running marathons. You're just... existing while female. Existing while magnetic. Existing while taught that your full presence is someone else's problem to manage.
What would it feel like to stop calibrating?
Not forever. Just for a night. An hour. A single conversation where you didn't adjust your energy based on how it might land.
Terrifying, maybe. But also — lighter?
You're not lazy. You're not broken. You're not bad at rest.
You're exhausted from performing smallness in a world that keeps asking you to take up less space.
That's not a you problem.
That's the impossible game.
And you're allowed to stop playing.