When You Wake Up Heavy

Some mornings, I wake up and feel it before I even remember why.
It sits on my chest like a damp fog. A quiet ache. A heaviness that has no name but all too familiar weight.

Sometimes, it’s grief.
Sometimes, it’s the residue of caregiving that never quite washed away.
Sometimes, it’s everything I’ve been holding just to make it through.

And on those mornings, before I even open my eyes, I know — I’m not starting from zero.  I’m starting from a deep-down tired. If you’ve ever opened your eyes and felt the world pressing in before your feet even hit the floor, I want you to know: you’re not broken.  You’re not lazy.  You’re not weak. You’re carrying something. You may be carrying heartbreak.  Or the invisible weight of showing up for someone day after day with no relief.

Maybe you’re carrying silence — the kind that came after a loss, when no one checks in anymore, but you still haven’t caught your breath.

I know that kind of morning.  I’ve lived in it.  Some days, I still do.

1. Breathe before anything else.

Before scrolling. Before checking the clock. Before talking to anyone.
Place your hand on your chest or your belly and just notice the rise and fall. Even if it’s shallow.
You are still here. And that’s enough for now.

2. Don’t reach for a solution — reach for stillness.

You don’t need a plan yet.
You don’t need to fix the feeling.
Sometimes all you need is to sit with it for five quiet minutes — tea in hand, robe wrapped around you, no expectations.

It’s okay if your only “accomplishment” in that moment is simply being honest with yourself:

“This morning feels hard.”

3. Give yourself one small thing.

Not five tasks. Just one thing that’s for you.
Light a candle. Open the window. Step outside barefoot.
Write one sentence in a notebook.
Wrap a blanket around your shoulders like armor.

Something that says:

“I still matter, even when I’m heavy.”

4. If the day begins slow, let it.

We’re taught to hit the ground running — but healing, grieving, and caregiving have their own rhythm.  You are not a machine.  And mornings like this are not signs of failure.  They are invitations to treat yourself with the tenderness you give to everyone else. I don’t have a magic cure for the heaviness.  But I can offer this: You’re not the only one waking up with it.  You’re not wrong for feeling it.  And you’re not alone in carrying it.

Not here. Not ever.

—Stephanie