Does it ever end

I need it to end.

Some days, it feels like the weight of everything is sitting right on my chest. Not crushing me, but heavy enough to make it hard to breathe. It’s one of those days when the tears are right there, hanging at the edges, just waiting for the slightest nudge to fall. And honestly, I’m not even sure what I’m crying about.

It’s everything, and it’s nothing. It’s the million little things I keep juggling and the big dreams that feel just out of reach. It’s the “almosts” and the “not yets.” The way the world keeps moving, faster and faster, while I’m just trying to keep up. And the space I once craved, the one I fought so hard to create, doesn’t feel like it fits me anymore. I don’t know if I’ve outgrown it, or if it’s just shrinking around me, but either way, it feels like I’m running out of air.

The tears sit stubbornly in my eyes, refusing to fall but refusing to go away. It’s like they’re waiting for me to surrender, to let them spill over and take me under. And maybe I should. Maybe crying would help. But then what? The questions would still be here. The weight wouldn’t just disappear. And the world wouldn’t suddenly stop moving to let me catch my breath.

Does it ever end? This constant push, this endless race where the finish line keeps moving just as I think I’m getting close? I used to believe it would. I thought one day I’d “make it” and finally find a place where I could breathe, where I could just be. But now, I’m not so sure. The space I thought would be mine, the place where I could stretch out and rest, feels too small, too tight, like it’s caving in around me.

And yet, in the middle of the suffocation and heaviness, there’s this faint whisper. A spark, fragile but stubborn, that says, Keep going. It’s not excitement or hope exactly, but it’s something. Like a tiny flame fighting to stay lit in the wind.

It’s overwhelming, though. The way life keeps piling things on, throwing new challenges at you before you’ve even caught your breath from the last one. And I think part of me is scared, scared of all the things I want, scared that I’ll reach for them and fail. Because wanting something so badly is terrifying. What if I’m not good enough?

But then there’s this other part of me, just as stubborn, that whispers back: What if you are? What if everything you’re feeling right now, the suffocation, the heaviness, the tears that won’t fall, is proof that you’re alive? That you care? That you’re moving toward something that matters, even if it feels impossible?

I wish I had an answer, some profound insight that made all of this make sense. But I don’t. All I know is that life doesn’t seem to slow down. And maybe there isn’t a finish line at all. Maybe life is just a series of beginnings, one after the other, that keep building on each other.

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s not about the end but about finding those little moments in between, the unexpected laughs, the quiet nights when the world feels still, the fragile hope of a future where it all works out.

So here I am, heart heavy but still beating. Tears threatening to fall but not from sadness alone. I don’t think it ever ends, the weight, the questions, the push to keep going. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about reaching the end at all. Maybe it’s just about surviving the in-between.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.