When my strength is gone…

“Are you okay?” they ask.

And the words tumble out like muscle memory—“I’m just tired.”

Just tired.

But tired doesn’t even touch it.

I am tired of this season that never seems to turn. Tired of standing in the middle of storms that do not break.

Tired of carrying grief like a weight strapped to my chest, pressing the breath from my lungs.

Tired of the heartbreak that bleeds in silence, the kind no one sees but God.

Tired of waking up with the ache still there, as if sleep refused to give me rest.

Tired.

But I cannot always say these things out loud. Because when I do, people shift uncomfortably, as if sorrow is too heavy a thing for them to hold. They rush to smooth over the cracks with platitudes. They paste reasons on my pain like a bandage that doesn’t stick. “Everything happens for a reason,” they whisper, as though such words could mend what feels like it will never be whole again.

But I am tired of that answer.

Because reasons don’t stop the bleeding.

Explanations don’t cradle a weary heart.

And yet, here I am. Raw. Spent. Bare before God.

Maybe this kind of tired is holy. Maybe it’s the breaking that makes room for His strength. Maybe it’s the exhaustion that drives me into His arms, because no one else knows what to do with this ache. Maybe “tired” is where my striving ends, and His sufficiency begins.

I am tired, yes. But perhaps this is the tired that heaven hears.

Perhaps this is the cry that draws the Lord near, the sigh He bottles like a prayer too deep for words.

Perhaps this is the ground where resurrection will one day bloom.

So I’ll whisper it again, but differently this time:

“I’m tired… but I’m held.”

“I’m tired… but I’m not abandoned.”

“I’m tired… but He is still enough.”

Because when my strength is gone, His has only begun.