You’re right; I am exhausted.

I am exhausted because he is six and I am almost fifty.

I am exhausted because I seem to be running a hotel for teenagers, with free laundry and housekeeping, and meals freshly cooked on demand, sometimes with room service.

I am exhausted because the road between ‘I do’ and ‘Happy Ever After’ is often a bumpy and tortuous one.

I am exhausted because I lie awake half the night worrying, not about what I will write for my assessments, but how I will find the time and head space to write anything at all.

I am exhausted because of the mood swings that come with the impending end of my reproductive life, which are wearing everybody thin.

I am exhausted by the weight of ‘what ifs’, from a lifetime full of ‘Sliding Doors’ moments.

I am not exhausted for the reason that you think I am.


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