Most people wake up with some kind of reserve — mental energy, emotional stability, clarity of thought. Some gas in the tank, some charge on the battery. I don’t. I start the day already drained. Not metaphorically. Actually. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. My brain, ever since the TBI, runs like an old phone that never quite charges past 12%. It doesn’t matter how long I “sleep.” There’s no reset. No full bar. Just a blinking battery icon and the knowledge that today, again, I’ll have to ration every percent like my life depends on it.
And people think, “It’s just basic stuff.” But that’s the thing. The basics are the most expensive. Things most people do on autopilot — making a plan, choosing what to wear, remembering what comes next — they’re brutal for me. My brain doesn’t filter or sequence well anymore. Executive function — the part that’s supposed to organize, plan, and follow through — feels like an app that crashes every time I open it. It drains my battery just by trying to load, and then leaves me stuck anyway.
So even a simple morning can feel like trying to run full-speed through mud while alarms are blaring, people are shouting instructions, lights are flashing, and someone keeps throwing random objects in your path. Everything’s loud. Everything’s urgent. Everything’s too much. And all I’m trying to do is put on clothes and remember if I already put on deodorant.
The to-do list is always too long, too loud, too much — and somehow still missing pieces. I used to be able to knock it out. Now, I can’t start, can’t recall what was next, can’t finish even one thing without burning out. And that’s before anyone else even sees me. That’s all internal. That’s all before the world even starts asking things of me.
And I know how it looks. That’s the worst part. I’m fully, painfully aware of how ridiculous it seems that brushing my hair or answering a message or walking into a grocery store can break me. So I tell myself the same thing I imagine everyone else is thinking: This is so stupid. Why are you like this? Just function already. That voice isn’t helpful. It’s not accountability. It’s a leech. That judgment drains me faster than anything else. It takes whatever little reserve I had left and throws it in the trash.
Because that’s the brutal truth no one sees: I don’t just lose energy from tasks — I lose it from trying to live with the fact that they’re hard. I burn out from the guilt, the shame, the constant internal resistance. Every small thing becomes a war. Not just doing the thing, but fighting my brain to do it, and then hating myself for needing to fight at all.
And yet… somehow I keep going. I’ve run on empty more times than I can count. I’ve had nothing left and still managed to smile, show up, pretend. Some days, I’m like one of those glitchy phones that says 1% but somehow keeps playing music for another twenty minutes. I don’t know how. I don’t know where that last drop comes from. But I find it. And I keep going.
I’m not lazy. I’m tired. And I’m trying with more than I am even able.
