Burning Beneath

There comes a moment when exhaustion speaks louder than hope.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but a deeper fatigue, the kind that settles quietly inside after chasing something for far too long. After reaching forward again and again, only to feel the same thing happen every time.

Like holding sand in the palm of my hand.

No matter how tightly my fingers close around it, the grains still slip away.

For a long time I thought maybe I just wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe if I held tighter, gave more, pushed more, believed more.

But tonight, something shifted.

I was sitting at the gathering, surrounded by beautiful, strong, incredible women. Different ages, different stories, different energies filling the room.

And yet, I was not there.

I was drowning quietly inside my own thoughts.

Silent, heavy, withdrawn.

The entire night, I barely spoke. I sat there, physically present, but emotionally somewhere else, lost in my own feelings, my own disappointments, my own questions.

Until the very end.

I looked at the woman sitting a couple of seats away from me, almost across the table, and without thinking too much, I said,

“This is one of those days where I feel like I just want to give up, and be done with it.”

She looked at me calmly and said,

“Yes, those days are hard.”

Then she paused.

And in the simplest, quietest way, she said something that shook me completely.

She told me she has kidney failure.

She is waiting for a transplant.

She told me that since her early twenties, just a week before her wedding, she was diagnosed with cancer. The treatments, the medications, they took away her ability to ever have children.

She said it simply, no drama, no bitterness.

Just truth.

And in that moment, something inside me broke, but not in the way I expected.

It wasn’t pain.

It was awakening.

A deep, uncomfortable, necessary realization.

How could I be so consumed by my own thoughts, so absorbed in my own pain, that I forgot the depth of what others are carrying?

I needed that moment.

I needed that wake-up call.

Because while every feeling I carry is real to me, it is not the only reality in the room.

In that instant, everything shifted.

The heaviness I was carrying didn’t disappear, but it changed shape. It softened, it lost its grip.

I looked at her and told her,

“Thank you, I needed this, I needed this wake-up call.”

And I meant it.

Because here she was, carrying more than I could imagine, and still smiling, still kind, still present, still choosing to live with an open heart instead of a hardened one.

I hugged her.

A real hug, one that carried more than words.

She told me she also has hard days, days where it feels heavy for her too.

But she keeps going.

And in that moment, I realized,

So can I.

When I walked back to my car, something felt different.

Not perfect, not completely healed.

But lighter.

Quieter.

Clearer.

Maybe the problem was never that I was feeling too much.

Maybe it was that I was stuck inside my own world, holding too tightly to something that kept slipping away.

Tonight reminded me of something simple, but powerful.

Life is happening all around me.

Pain exists everywhere, but so does strength, so does resilience, so does quiet courage.

And maybe instead of chasing what I feel is missing, I need to focus on what I can build, what I can give, what I can become.

My purpose is still there.

My vision is still there.

And tonight, I feel a little more grounded returning to it.

A little more ready to focus on what truly matters to me.

Building something meaningful.

Creating something real.

And continuing my path toward the non-profit I believe in.

The sand may still slip through my fingers.

But tonight reminded me,

I don’t need to hold onto it so tightly to keep moving forward.