Have you ever felt exhausted in a way that sleep didn’t fix?
Not the kind of tired that goes away after a night off or a long weekend.
The kind that sits in your chest.
That follows you from room to room.
That makes even quiet moments feel heavy.
For me, it started to become impossible to ignore in October of 2020.
I was living alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Phoenix. The kind of neighborhood where hearing gunfire at night and seeing red and blue lights through the window felt… normal. Life was locked down. I was working from home, spending my days making cold calls, trying to stay focused, trying to stay productive.
And at night, I’d sit on the couch completely drained.
Not just tired.
Unhappy.
Unsettled.
At first, I told myself it made sense. Of course I was exhausted — the world was on fire. Everyone was struggling. This was just something to get through.
But eventually, I realized something uncomfortable.
The hardest place I was living wasn’t that apartment.
It was the space inside my own head.
That’s when it hit me: waiting this out wasn’t going to fix it. Hoping it would pass wasn’t enough. I didn’t need more distractions or better routines. I needed help. I needed therapy. I needed to actually face what was going on instead of quietly carrying it and calling that strength.
That realization changed everything.
I was raised by good parents. I’d even done some counseling before. But this time was different. This time, I committed to looking at the roots — the patterns, the behaviors, the things I’d learned to survive that were no longer helping me live.
And something shifted.
Not overnight. Not dramatically. But steadily.
I experienced a kind of freedom I hadn’t known before. Not because life suddenly got easy, but because I wasn’t fighting myself anymore.
That’s why this space exists.
Because I believe a lot of us are walking around exhausted — not because life is hard, but because we’re carrying things we never learned how to process. Old stories. Unspoken grief. Coping mechanisms that once protected us and now quietly drain us.
Mental health isn’t something you fix and move on from. It’s a lifelong practice. But when you’re willing to look honestly at the hard things — and ask for help when you need it — something opens up.
You don’t just survive.
You grow.
You find peace.
And over time, you find real joy.
If any of this resonates with you, I talk more about this journey — and what it looked like to finally ask for help — in the video linked below. You’re not behind. You’re not broken. And you don’t have to do this alone.