Fatigue after the Fight

There’s a kind of exhaustion no one prepares you for and is rarely talked about.

I know our lives have been heavy for a while now. I’ve had to tell our story more times than I can count, and most of the time, I don’t even want to hear it anymore. I’m tired of explaining. Tired of justifying. Tired of still being in it. And honestly, I imagine you might be tired of hearing about it too, and I get it.

This hasn’t just been my trauma. It’s touched my entire family and the people who’ve supported us in so many different ways. I see how exhausting it must be to keep holding space for something that feels like it just won’t end. Please know, I don’t expect you to carry it with me when I share. I simply want you to know I see you. I understand. And I’m so grateful you’ve stayed with me this far.

This isn’t just the kind of tired that comes from surviving something life-altering; it’s the kind that settles in after the adrenaline fades. When you’re still standing, but the world expects you to “move on”, while inside, everything still feels like rubble.

Since 2019, my husband and I have been navigating the long, winding road that cancer carved through our lives. Stage 4 colon cancer. It came out of nowhere, like a wrecking ball. It rearranged everything. Our priorities, our finances, our nervous systems, our sense of time. The crisis was all-consuming.

He survived. He has his life. For that, I am forever grateful.

But what isn’t always easy to explain is that the “after” has been just as exhausting. It is quieter. Invisible. Lingering. No one talks about the fatigue that comes from telling why the story is still affecting your daily life.

Over and over.

To doctors.

To banks.

To friends.

To family.

Explaining why things are still hard.

Justifying the chaos.

That’s the part that hits the hardest: justifying the chaos.

I’ve juggled the debt, the exhaustion, the emotions, and the aftershocks of a trauma that landed like a bomb on our family. Each of us processed it differently. And I’ve done the best I could these last six years. But I know, people have a hard time understanding how deeply cancer can flip your life upside down.

I’ve realized I’m not just tired, I’m burnt out on my own story. I crave new chapters, but the old one still lingers, clinging to our daily life.

This is what I now understand as narrative burnout. And it’s real.

And to those who have walked beside me, offering their ears, their hearts, their patience, I know you’re tired too.

There’s a name for that: compassion fatigue.

It happens when we care so deeply, for so long, that our own capacity begins to waver. I feel it in the silence. In the subtle distance. In the weariness behind the “How are you doing?” The undertone in the question, the kind that doesn’t necessarily want to hear the same hard story again.

And honestly? I get it. I’m over it, too.

This isn’t to blame. It’s acknowledgment.

This has been a long road. FOR ALL OF US.

This weekend, I gained a new perspective on the parts of myself I try to hide. I’ve tried so hard to show up as the version of me I want to be, on the other side of the cancer journey. But the truth is, our family is still in it. And yes, I am grateful every single day for my husband’s life. But I’ve also been juggling years of stress, fear, and uncertainty that only someone who’s been through it can truly understand.

So today, I want to honor the fatigue behind the healing.

This is the kind of tired that can’t be fixed with a nap or eating healthy. This is when your soul is tired.

To those of you still holding me, thank you.

To those who’ve quietly stepped back, I get it.

I’m so tired of the story, too. I’m depleted not just from doing, but from justifying. From retelling.

And yet… I also see the days getting brighter. Life is beginning to bloom in ways I once only dreamed. But underneath it all, there’s still the energy of survival. The undercurrent of stress that’s been buzzing beneath my feet for years.

Some days I stand tall.

Other days, the tears come, and I don’t know how I’ll hold it all together.

This is the side of healing that rarely gets shared.

I always tell my story in hopes it helps someone else. Last night, after sharing my financial reality with a client, he said, “I have no idea how you hold up so well under that pressure.”

And the truth is: there is no other option.

So, if you ask me how I’m doing, and I unload some of my energy… please know, I don’t want you to carry it. I know it might feel like the same story. I get it.

I’ve been carrying a lot. For a very long time.

I’m proud of everything I’ve managed to hold. And I’m also my soul is tired.

Both versions of me can exist. And both are worthy of love.

Thank you to every single one of you who has shown up for me and for my family, through this wild, unrelenting chapter. Your presence has meant everything. And I know, one day the page will finally turn, and we will be in a completely new chapter.