https://riseaboveyournormblog.wordpress.com/2025/11/04/the-effects-of-an-emotionally-unavailable-mother/

> “Even in the fall, there’s a lesson in the landing.” This piece came from one of my darker moments — a place of exhaustion, loneliness, and deep emotional pain. Writing has always been my release, my way of making sense of the chaos within. Sometimes, I write what I can’t bring myself to say out loud. If you’ve ever felt too tired to keep going, too broken to stand, or too unseen to be heard — this is for you. You are not alone in your fall, and you are not the only one yearning for peace. The Thud There are mornings I don’t want to wake up anymore. Not because I’ve given up, but because I’m tired — tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Tired of pretending I’m okay when everything inside of me aches for peace. I’ve learned there’s a difference between wanting to die and being too tired to live. One is a wish for escape. The other is a cry for stillness — a desperate need for the pain to stop echoing through your soul. Peace. That’s all I ever wanted. Not the kind that sits in quiet rooms, but the kind that silences the war inside — the one that keeps you questioning your worth, your purpose, your will to keep going. Sometimes the pain gets so deep that I stop feeling it. I move through my days numb, detached, watching life unfold around me like I’m not really a part of it. Then, without warning, I fall — emotionally, mentally, spiritually. And when I fall, I hit the ground with a thud. People see it, maybe even hear it. But they keep walking. Not because they don’t care — sometimes they just don’t know what to do with another person’s pain. Still, it hurts. It hurts to be visible enough to be noticed but invisible enough not to matter. I lay there — tongue-tied, exhausted, and broken — whispering to myself, “Why couldn’t I have just died?” That’s the kind of honesty we don’t like to say out loud, isn’t it? The kind that makes others uncomfortable. But it’s real. It’s human. It’s the truth of what it feels like when the weight within becomes too heavy to carry.

I want to talk about one of the hardest truths I’ve had to face on my healing journey—the battle within myself. It’s one thing to overcome pain caused by others, but it’s something entirely different when the person standing in your way is you. Mental health recovery has taught me that sometimes, the biggest fight isn’t with the world—it’s with the voice in your own mind. ——- My Own Worst Enemy (By Jacqueline Hayes) I’ve walked through fires of my own design, Built prisons in this heart of mine. Each fear, each doubt, I let reside, Until my spirit ran to hide. I’ve torn down bridges I helped build, Let guilt and shame go unfulfilled. I blamed the world, I blamed the pain, Not knowing I fed my own chain. The mirror shows a face I know, But she’s been hurt from long ago. She’s strong, yet tired — brave, yet scared, Haunted by truths she never shared. I’ve been my foe, my harshest voice, Silencing hope, denying choice. But deep inside, I hear a plea — “Please stop destroying what could be.” So now I breathe, and face the flame, No longer running from the name. I’ll own my scars, forgive the past, And free myself — at peace, at last. For healing starts when I believe, That I am worthy to receive. No longer foe, no enemy — Just me, becoming who I’m meant to be. —– There was a time I didn’t need anyone else to tear me down—because I did it all by myself. Every mistake, every flaw, every scar—I used them as weapons against me. I’ve been my own harshest critic, my own abuser, my own worst enemy. And the truth is, sometimes it’s easier to believe the lies your mind tells you than to face the pain underneath them. I used to look in the mirror and only see what I wasn’t. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not lovable enough. That voice in my head—the one that told me I’d never change—was louder than any encouragement I ever received. I thought if I punished myself first, no one else could hurt me. But all that did was keep me stuck in the same cycle of shame, guilt, and self-sabotage.

There are times in life when you wake up and realize—you don’t recognize yourself anymore. It doesn’t usually happen all at once. It’s slow. Piece by piece, life chips away at you until the person you used to be feels like a stranger. Maybe you’ve lost yourself in addiction. Maybe you’ve lost yourself in trauma. Maybe you’ve lost yourself in giving everything to everyone else while leaving nothing for you. Whatever the reason, the feeling is the same: empty. Disconnected. Gone. I’ve been there. Looking in the mirror and seeing my reflection but not my spark. Smiling when deep down I wanted to scream. Saying “I’m fine” when I wasn’t even close. Showing up for everyone else while I’d already stopped showing up for myself. And the scariest part? No one notices. You can lose yourself completely and still function, still laugh at the right moments, still carry other people’s weight—while your own identity quietly slips away. But here’s the truth I had to learn: losing yourself completely doesn’t mean you’re gone forever. It means you have a chance—painful as it is—to rediscover who you are. Sometimes the version of us that disappears isn’t the truest version anyway. Maybe the breaking is what clears the space to rebuild. How Do You Start Finding Yourself Again? It’s not easy. And it doesn’t happen overnight. But piece by piece, you can begin to rise again: Write it out. Journaling gives your pain a voice. Even if it feels messy or meaningless, putting it on paper keeps it from staying bottled up. Choose small sparks of joy. Do one little thing you used to love, even if you don’t feel it yet. A walk, a song, a favorite food. Over time, sparks become flames. Set boundaries. Stop apologizing for needing space. Protecting your energy is not selfish—it’s survival. Talk honestly. Pretending you’re fine only deepens the disconnect. Opening up to someone you trust can remind you that you’re still here. Be patient with yourself. Healing isn’t a straight line. Some days you’ll feel found, other days lost again. That’s okay. Keep going.

My soul is tired. Not just my body, not just my mind—deep down, I feel worn. It’s the kind of tired that no nap, no day off, no escape can fix. It’s the weight of years of pain, mistakes, and battles that no one else truly sees. I am tired of pretending I’m okay when I’m not. Tired of putting on a smile while my heart feels like it’s breaking into pieces. Tired of being strong for my kids, my family, for everyone—when inside I just want to collapse and let someone else carry me for a change. As a mother, I’ve had to keep going even when I felt like giving up. Seven children who needed me that light up my world—yet even love that powerful doesn’t erase the heaviness I carry. Addiction, recovery, heartbreak, loss, starting over from scratch… sometimes it feels like my whole life has been about rebuilding what was broken, only to watch it crumble again. And it’s exhausting. My soul is tired of fighting the same battles with myself—my thoughts, my emotions, my past. Tired of feeling like no matter how far I climb, I’m always one step away from falling. But even in this deep exhaustion, there is something inside of me that refuses to die. That tiny flicker of hope. That voice that whispers, “You’ve made it this far. Don’t stop now.” My soul may be tired, but it is still alive. Still fighting. Still showing up. Still loving. Still choosing to believe that healing is possible, even when it feels out of reach. If your soul is tired too, I want you to know—you are not alone. It’s okay to rest. It’s okay to put your burdens down, even for a little while. You don’t have to be strong every single day. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is simply say: “I am tired, but I am still here.” And right now, that’s enough. A Final Thought Even in the moments when your soul feels weary, there is still a chance to rise. We don’t have to stay in the exhaustion forever. Little by little, step by step, we can rebuild—stronger, softer, and more whole than before. That’s what Rise Above Your Norm is about: not being perfect, not always being strong, but choosing to rise anyway, in your own time, in your own way.