A letter to the One who is Tired...

Dear You,

I see you.

I see the way you wake up each morning with the weight of a thousand thoughts already sitting on your chest. I see how you smile even when your soul feels stretched thin. I see how you keep going, even when your heart whispers, “I’m so tired.”

This letter is for you—the one who is showing up for everyone else while quietly crumbling on the inside. The one who holds space for others, but rarely finds a soft place to land herself. The one who is tired—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, deeply.

I don’t know exactly what you’re carrying, but I know it’s heavy. Maybe it’s the exhaustion of doing everything right and still feeling like it’s not enough. Maybe it’s the heartbreak that lingers just beneath the surface. Maybe it’s the mental load of motherhood, of being needed by everyone all the time. Or maybe it’s the quiet ache of feeling unseen, even while surrounded by people.

Whatever your tired looks like—whether it’s loud or silent—I want you to know that you’re not weak for feeling this way. You’re human. And being tired doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’ve been strong for too long without rest.

So let this be your permission to pause.

To breathe.

To not have it all together today.

To whisper “I’m overwhelmed” without guilt. To cry if you need to. To take the nap. To cancel the plans. To admit, even just to yourself, that you need care too.

You don’t have to earn rest by proving how hard you’ve worked or how much you’ve endured. You are worthy of gentleness right now, just as you are. Not when the to-do list is done. Not when you’ve finally fixed everything. Now.

If no one has told you lately: You’re doing better than you think. You are allowed to need rest. You are allowed to fall apart and come back together slowly. The world will not end if you take a moment for yourself. You are not a machine. You are a soul.

This is not the end of your story—it’s just a tired chapter. And chapters like these are allowed to be quiet. They’re allowed to be slower. They’re allowed to be softer.

So take this letter as a reminder: you are seen, you are held, and you are loved—even in your weariness.

Take your time. Take your space. The world can wait.

With love and deep tenderness,

Marguerite