How to Hold on When Your Grit is Crumbling

When is enough enough?

My predominant feeling is … tired. I’m just tired. Also defeated. The hits just keep on coming, and I’m tired of overcoming them. Sometimes, it feels easier just to stand there and let the blows fall, hoping one will knock me out completely. I’ve always gotten back up after being knocked down, but how many times can that be expected? When is enough just enough?

I’ve made turning setbacks into comebacks my identity, but what if I don’t want to spend my whole life fighting my way back up? What if I want to feel safe and loved? What if I want to feel like there’s anyone else in the world I can truly lean on? What if I just want a safety net to be there if I fall, one I didn’t have to hand stitch from my own flesh?

I’ve gotten used to life not working out according to my plans. So, I made the best of things. I made the best of a marriage that made me a shadow of my former self. I made the best of a divorce that left me single parenting and struggling to find my footing in a world that changed irrevocably. I took job losses and built the career of my dreams. I faced abuse and emerged from it stronger than before. I lost best friends and still made new ones. I lost the person I loved most and still kept breathing. I suffered a chronic illness and became a powerful advocate for others.

But for all those survival stories, the core truth is that I keep getting knocked down, and the fact that I don’t stay down doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt every single time I have to claw my way back up to start all over again. It’s exhausting. Just as soon as I have a moment’s peace and security, it feels like the foundations are shaken again. I am falling, and there is no safety net if I don’t make one.

I’ve built a life I love, but it feels fragile. It’s been built from pure grit, but that grit is beginning to soften and crumble. I don’t want to hold the world up on my shoulders. I want to let it fall and bury me with it. I want to rest in the soft dirt and be reborn into something new. To breathe air that’s not thick with the salt of my grief.

I want to be able to cry in arms strong enough to hold me up while I cannot hold myself. I want to fall without immediately having to scrabble for purchase, pulling myself up with bloody hands while I’m still grieving what knocked me down in the first place. I want to be lifted and carried to safety and for once, not have to worry about the next step and the one after and the next lifetime after that.

I want to believe that this setback is the last one, but I’ve overcome so many that it feels like one in a long line of challenges I’m just meant to face. I look for my trademark optimism and find only the longing to sleep away these troubled days and wake up when it’s all over. Only, that’s never been an option. There’s no time to breathe or grieve. There is only relentless trying.

Trying. And failing. Trying again. Being deemed never quite good enough no matter how hard I work.

I take a deep breath. Because what else can I do? I have a life that needs me in it. I have flickering hope for better days ahead. So, I take a deep breath and look for something to hold onto.

A rose is blooming in my garden, and it’s beautiful despite the thorns that warn us we should appreciate it rather than try to hold onto its beauty. A bumblebee hovers above the pollen of a flower, dips in, and drunkenly tilts back up, lifting its unlikely body back into flight. The grass beneath my bare feet is soft, and the laughter of my children is loud as it floats to where I’m standing. I’m hurting, but I’m here. It has to be enough.

Night falls, and another morning comes. I want to wake up happy, but I feel the fresh ache of grief in my bones. I work, and I sleep, and if I sleep more than work, it’s what my body demands. I’m hurting, but I’m here. It has to be enough.

I lose myself in a good book but find the grief waiting for me when I come up for air. I binge an entire show and find the loss patiently waiting for me to notice its presence. I take my children on an outing and focus on their joy rather than my pain. I’m hurting, but I’m here. It has to be enough.

I play with my puppy. He likes to wrestle around, to fetch his ball, and to catch his toys in mid-air. He’s a happy dog who loves to be held like a teddy bear as I fall asleep. Lately, I’m falling asleep a lot. So much so that even my puppy seems worried. I’m hurting, but I’m here. It has to be enough.

One day, I will wake, and the hurt will have faded. One morning, I will wake and feel happy. Until then, I’m hurting, but I’m here.

I make it enough.