The past two weeks have been rough. I’m not even going to dress it up. My sleep, or the lack of it, has pushed me to the edge. (Stupid perimenopause, well, that is what I think it is.) I’ve tried everything. The first round of prescription meds I got earlier this year didn’t work. The second left me feeling drugged and groggy, even more tired than before. A third script followed, but I decided not to fill it right away. I’d rather face my bad sleep head-on than risk going through that again. I am tired of experimenting on top of being physically exhausted.

And then there was Mother’s Day.

My children went out of their way to spoil me. (And why can I not just stop this paragraph here, why is it always the but that occupies the most thought real estate?) But one—well—did not even verbally acknowledge the day.

Later that week, his teacher stopped me to say how touched she was by the message he’d sent her, thanking her for being like a mum to him at school. I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked. It stung. And that night, when I couldn’t sleep, the spiral came: Where did I go wrong? What did I miss? Why does he hate me when I do so much for him and love him as best I can? You know the drill… Those thoughts find you when you’re already low, and pull you deeper still.

But not everything has been dark.

I celebrated my birthday. I felt terrible that morning; it was day two on that awful medication. But I’d invited some friends over for cake, and they lifted me. They reminded me that I’m held, even when I don’t feel steady. They made my day!

The day before my birthday, something else happened.

At the track where I run, there’s a checkpoint when we leave. Show your keys, turn the ignition, off you go. But that day, as I rolled down my window, the security guard looked at me, smiled, and said:

“Yoh. You can really see the progress. One of these days, you’re going to run a marathon.”

I laughed. Partly because I’ve already run three. But mostly because it was just such a pure moment. Unfiltered kindness from someone who sees me only in passing. He doesn’t know the pain, the exhaustion, the doubts. He sees someone who keeps showing up.

And sometimes, that’s all we can do.

That one comment reminded me that even when things feel like falling apart, something in me is still building. Still becoming. Still visible, even if only to someone standing at the edge of the car park.

So here I am: still tired, still wrestling, still unsure. But still going.

How do you stop yourself from falling apart?