Beyond the Hustle: Permission Granted to Be Tired and Whole

Lately, I’ve been wrestling with a kind of tired that has no shape. It’s not just physical. It sits deeper, in my chest, in my gut, in the space between my spirit and my mind. I think it’s the weight of trying. Of believing. Of holding faith while also holding fear. It’s not a hustle kind of tired. It’s the kind of tired that comes from carrying hope in one hand and uncertainty in the other, and doing your best to walk forward anyway.

The truth is, I’ve been pushing myself. Not because I want to be seen grinding. But because I believe I’m building something powerful beyond my own conception. Something that has weight. Something that will outlive me. That belief keeps me moving. It keeps me writing when I feel invisible. It keeps me creating when I’m unsure of the outcome. It keeps me applying, strategizing, showing up, and still holding space for others while my own well feels low.

But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hard. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t cried lately. Not because I’m fragile, but because I’ve been carrying so much mentally, spiritually, emotionally. Sometimes the only honest response to the weight is to let it out. Crying has never made me weak. If anything, it’s proof I haven’t gone numb.

Sometimes I wonder what it would look like to rest not as a reward, but as a birthright. And then I remember: being tired is not a failure. Being tired is not a weakness. It’s just your body, your spirit, your truth asking to be witnessed.

And yet, I still try to outrun the exhaustion sometimes. It’s a familiar, almost comforting impulse. I over-schedule, packing my days until every moment feels accounted for, convinced that productivity is the ultimate virtue. I tell myself to push just a little harder, that success lies just beyond this next hurdle, this one more email, this last task. I scroll job boards between Zoom calls, chasing a phantom sense of progress, and then, in moments of quiet contradiction, I journal about joy in the margins of my planner, as if scheduling happiness can truly manifest it. I tell others to rest, to honor their limits, while quietly ignoring the deep ache in my own bones. This isn't because I’m a hypocrite, but because I’m intensely, imperfectly human. Because I’m profoundly afraid of what might happen if I slow down too long, of being left behind, of missing an opportunity, of simply not being enough.

I’ve mistaken movement for momentum, believing that constant motion equates to significant progress. I’ve mistaken output for impact, measuring my worth by the sheer volume of what I produce rather than the depth or meaning of it. But through persistent, sometimes painful, self-reflection, I’m learning to pause. This isn't just about catching my breath; it’s about creating space to truly listen. To listen to the quiet whispers of my own needs, to the subtle shifts in my energy, to the deeper desires that get drowned out by the relentless hum of activity. It’s about creating room to grieve what didn’t go as planned, to acknowledge the detours and disappointments without judgment. It’s about extending myself the same grace I so readily offer others, forgiving myself for not being everything to everyone, for not living up to some impossible standard of perpetual perfection. And perhaps most importantly, it’s about remembering that simply being is sacred too, that my inherent value isn't tied to my accomplishments or my busyness, but to my very existence.

There’s a quote I often come back to by Shigeo Shingo that resonates deeply with this realization: “The most dangerous kind of waste is the waste we don’t recognize.” And I believe the same profound truth applies to us, to our lives, to our well-being. It’s the exhaustion we consistently ignore, pushing through it as if it’s a minor inconvenience rather than a significant warning. It’s the joy we habitually postpone, always waiting for the "right" time, the "perfect" conditions, which often never arrive. It’s the dreams we downplay, shrinking them to fit the perceived limitations of our reality instead of expanding our reality to fit our dreams. It’s the sheer weight we normalize, accepting chronic stress or an overwhelming workload as simply "how things are" instead of recognizing them as signals of imbalance. That unrecognized burden, that quiet accumulation of unaddressed needs and ignored signals, that’s what chips away at us slowly, insidiously. That’s what makes profound tiredness feel like a personal weakness, a moral failing, when in truth it’s a clear, undeniable signal. A signal to stop, to tend to ourselves with kindness and care, to recalibrate our priorities, and to remember that our well-being is not a luxury, but the very foundation upon which everything else rests.

I used to believe that being tired meant I was doing something inherently wrong. That if I just had better discipline, a more rigorous schedule, superior time management skills, or an unyielding well of drive, I wouldn’t feel this persistent weariness. The narrative I internalized was that exhaustion was a personal failing, a lack of will. But the deeper, more compassionate truth I've come to recognize is this: I am profoundly tired because I care deeply. Because I am constantly living, stretching, and showing up, not just in physical spaces, but in emotional and intellectual ones, that were never truly built to hold the entirety of who I am. And because somewhere along the way, in a subtle but pervasive shift, I utterly confused endurance with genuine strength. I believed that the ability to simply withstand pressure was the pinnacle of resilience, rather than understanding that true strength lies in knowing when to yield, when to replenish, and when to rebuild.

No one ever explicitly pulled me aside and said, “You have to suffer to prove your worth.” There wasn't a single, defining lecture. But I witnessed it, absorbed it, and internalized it over and over again, through countless unspoken lessons. I saw it in the way family members, particularly elders, carried the crushing weight of survival, often without a single complaint, their quiet stoicism a testament to their love and dedication. I saw it in how mentors, often well-meaning, consistently praised the ones who pushed relentlessly through obstacles, even when it visibly cost them their joy, their peace, their very well-being. And I felt it acutely in work cultures that vociferously celebrate busyness, relentless output, and constant availability, but never once genuinely inquire whether we’re truly okay, whether our humanity is intact. So, I learned, not through spoken words, but through powerful, pervasive modeling, that rest was a privilege that had to be earned through monumental effort, and that exhaustion, far from being a warning sign, was simply an expected, even noble, state of being.

Now, with conscious effort and often with profound discomfort, I’m actively unlearning that deeply ingrained programming. Slowly. Imperfectly. It’s a messy, nonlinear process, but it's vital. I’m learning that strength is not, in fact, about how much pain or burden I can carry on my own shoulders, but about how honest I am willing to be with myself and with others when I have genuinely carried too much. I’m learning that rest is not the antithesis of ambition, not its enemy, but its essential partner, the fertile ground from which sustainable effort and genuine creativity can spring. That profound clarity, the kind that truly matters, doesn't come from pushing harder, but from slowing down enough to actually hear myself, to decipher the quiet wisdom of my own body and spirit. That honoring my innate human capacity, acknowledging my limits without shame, doesn’t make me lazy or less driven, it makes me whole, integrated, and authentically myself.

And as I embark on this unlearning, I can’t help but think about how many of us, particularly within specific communities, have inherited the deep, systemic trauma of overwork. Especially as Black people, who have historically been expected to carry immense burdens, both seen and unseen, with unwavering resilience. For us, the message was often unspoken but powerfully ingrained: we had to be twice as good to go half as far. This wasn't just a saying; it was a survival strategy, a constant pressure woven into our very being, a legacy of our history in the Americas. This meant pushing harder, sacrificing more, ignoring our own weariness, all just to reach a baseline that others might achieve with less effort. Especially as men, often socialized to equate self-worth with stoicism and relentless provision, regardless of the internal cost. Especially as people raised in households where silence and sacrifice were not just normalized, but were often synonymous with profound love and loyalty. We were taught, through the very fabric of our upbringing, to measure our value not by our inherent worth or our joy, but by how little we needed and how much we could stoically endure. But we deserve so much more than mere endurance. We deserve, profoundly and unequivocally, to be nourished in body, mind, and spirit, to thrive, not just survive. We deserve to experience the abundant life we are working so hard to build.

If I could sit across from my younger self, head down, jaw tight, doing everything alone, I wouldn’t tell him to slow down. Not at first. I know he wouldn’t listen. He’s too committed to holding everything together. He believes being tired is just part of the cost of excellence. That exhaustion is proof of purpose.

So instead, I’d just sit with him. I’d remind him that I see him. That the work he’s doing matters, but that he matters more. That being the one who carries it all doesn’t mean you’re stronger. Sometimes it just means you’re more afraid of dropping something than of breaking down in silence. I’d tell him: You are not here to burn out proving that you belong. You belong already.

And to anyone else who feels like tiredness is a mark of failure, I offer this:

Your fatigue is not a flaw. It is a signal. A sacred one.

It means you’ve been trying. It means you’ve been showing up. It means your heart is still open, even if heavy. You don’t need to prove your worth through constant motion. You don’t need to grind your way into visibility. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to feel without fixing it first.

You are not weak. You are not behind. You are not broken.

You are tired, and that is enough of a reason to be held, to be witnessed, to be soft with yourself.

So if today you find yourself tired, not the kind that sleep fixes, but the kind that seeps into your bones, may you give yourself permission to name it. To honor it. To not rush past it.

May you remember that you are not behind. You are not lazy. You are not failing.

You are carrying things this world doesn’t always see.

May you release the myth that strength means silence. That rest means giving up. That softness makes you any less powerful.

Let this be your reminder: You are allowed to be human here.

You are allowed to be held, not only by others, but by grace, by stillness, by your own breath.

And when the world demands more than you can give, may you remember this:

You do not have to earn your rest. You do not have to hustle for your healing. You do not have to break yourself to build something worthy.

Stand if you can. Sit if you must. Crawl if you need to.

But know that even now, you are moving forward.

Even now, you are worthy of love.

And even now, in your tiredness, you are whole.