05 | When normal life feels unbearable
There comes a point where it’s no longer the big challenges that feel overwhelming.
It’s the small ones.
The emails.
The noise.
The conversations.
The errands.
The decisions.
The messages.
The plans.
The interruptions.
The responsibilities.
The ordinary demands of daily life.
Things that once felt manageable start to feel heavy.
Things that were once easy start to feel hard.
Things that were once neutral start to feel stressful.
Not because they’ve changed.
But because you have.
Not in who you are.
But in how much capacity you have left.
This is what depletion does.
It doesn’t break you.
It shrinks your margin.
Your tolerance lowers.
Your resilience thins.
Your buffer disappears.
Your capacity contracts.
So the world feels louder.
Life feels sharper.
Demands feel heavier.
Stimulation feels harsher.
Pressure feels closer.
Noise feels intrusive.
Not because you’re fragile.
But because your system has less room.
There is a difference between fragility and fullness.
A full cup can absorb more.
An empty one spills easily.
When your system is depleted, there is no spare capacity.
No buffer.
No margin.
No space to absorb impact.
So everything lands harder.
A comment feels heavier.
A demand feels sharper.
A request feels overwhelming.
A change feels destabilising.
A delay feels unbearable.
A disruption feels intolerable.
This is when people start to say:
“I can’t cope anymore.”
“I’m not managing normal life.”
“I don’t recognise myself.”
“I feel overwhelmed by everything.”
“I’m so reactive.”
“I’m so sensitive.”
“I’m so on edge.”
And they turn inward.
They blame themselves.
They judge themselves.
They pathologise themselves.
They try to fix themselves.
They try to toughen up.
They try to become stronger.
But reduced capacity is not weakness.
It is fatigue.
It is depletion.
It is load.
It is a system running without reserves.
You are not failing at life.
Your system is running without enough energy to buffer it.
This is why people say:
“I used to handle so much more.”
“I don’t know what’s happened to me.”
“I wasn’t always like this.”
“I used to be stronger.”
You still are.
But strength requires fuel.
Resilience requires reserves.
Capacity requires energy.
Tolerance requires margin.
Without these, the system can’t absorb impact.
So it reacts instead.
This is not emotional instability.
It is energetic scarcity.
This is not psychological weakness.
It is structural depletion.
This is not personal failure.
It is cumulative load.
There is a cruel myth that says:
“If you were stronger, you’d cope better.”
But coping is not about strength.
It’s about capacity.
And capacity comes from replenishment.
From rest.
From safety.
From slowness.
From simplicity.
From rhythm.
From nourishment.
From quiet.
From space.
From meaning.
From beauty.
Without these, even the strongest systems strain.
This is why normal life starts to feel unbearable.
Not because it is extreme.
But because your system has nothing left to absorb it.
There is nothing wrong with you for finding things hard.
There is nothing wrong with you for feeling overwhelmed.
There is nothing wrong with you for struggling with normal life.
It means your system is tired.
Not broken.
Not weak.
Not failing.
Just overloaded and underfuelled.
This is the moment where many people turn against themselves.
But this is the moment that actually calls for gentleness.
For softness.
For understanding.
For care.
For compassion.
For slowing.
For subtraction.
For protection.
Not more effort.
Not more pressure.
Not more discipline.
Not more self-control.
When normal life feels unbearable, it isn’t because you are incapable of living it.
It’s because your system needs restoration before it can hold it again.
Capacity is not character.
It’s condition.
And conditions can change.
This body of work moves forward from here.
Not to push you.
Not to fix you.
Not to harden you.
But to help you understand how to live in a way that doesn’t keep draining you.
Because life is not meant to feel unbearable.
And you are not meant to live in survival mode.
Not like this.