There’s a kind of fatigue no one really talks about.
This kind of fatigue isn’t about laziness or lack of ambition.
It’s the exhaustion that comes after surviving internal wars no one saw. It’s what happens when your mind has been in survival mode for so long—processing pain, trauma, loss, betrayal, depression, fear—that your body starts to carry the weight too. Even when the storm quiets down, you’re not suddenly fine.
You survived.
You held on—barely—praying and hoping when everything in you wanted to let go.
But now?
Now that things are quieter… you find yourself stuck.
Still.
Drained.
It’s hard to explain why everyday things feel like mountains. Especially when those things are tied to your calling. Your purpose. Your God-given dreams.
You have dreams. Big ones. You want to move forward. But something invisible holds you back. You start questioning yourself—“Why can’t I just do it?”
But the truth is: Healing takes energy. Processing takes energy. Hope after hardship takes even more energy.
Yes, it’s beautiful. Yes, it’s holy. But it’s also exhausting.
It’s work—deep, soul-deep work. And when you’ve been fighting battles no one could see, even the things you love can start to feel hard.
This is the fatigue of the soul.
For me, that thing is writing.
I know I love it. I know I’m gifted for it. I know God placed this passion in me. But the fire—the one that used to keep me up at night, dreaming of stories, posts, and purpose—doesn’t burn quite the same. And honestly? That’s a loss I’m still grieving.
Because healing, while it restores, also strips.
It peels away the noise, the hustle, the striving, the adrenaline. And in the quiet, sometimes you realize: the version of you who once ran full-speed toward dreams… is tired.
But I’ve learned something:
That’s okay.
More than that—it’s normal.
And it’s not the end.
David wrote in Psalm 23, “He makes me lie down in green pastures… He restores my soul.”
Not asks me to lie down.
Not suggests it.
He makes me.
Why? Because God knows we don’t always rest when we need to. We keep pushing. Performing. Proving. Until we can’t anymore. Until we’re made to stop. Made to rest. Made to heal.
So maybe—just maybe—this weariness you’re feeling isn’t a sign that you’ve lost your purpose.
Maybe it’s an invitation.
An invitation into a new pace.
A gentler rhythm.
One that’s not driven by pressure but led by grace.
Maybe your passion isn’t gone. Maybe it’s just buried under the debris of the battle.
And maybe—when the time is right—God will breathe on it again.
Not with the same frantic fire, but with something deeper.
Steadier.
Stronger.
So if you’re there right now—tired after healing, uncertain of your passion, questioning your capacity—let me remind you of something true:
You’re not broken.
You’re becoming.
Let the Shepherd lead you.
Let Him restore you.
And trust—deeply—that what He started in you, He is still faithful to complete. Philippians 1:6 – I am convinced and confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will [continue to] perfect and complete it until the day of Christ Jesus [the time of His return]. (AMP)
