There’s this thing nobody tells you about being tired all the time—it’s not just the exhaustion that gets to you. It’s the way it warps everything. It turns small decisions into mountains. It makes you second-guess yourself constantly. And the worst part? Nobody really believes you. They think you’re lazy or distracted or just not trying hard enough.
I still remember the teacher who thanked me for being “so entertaining” one day at lunch. Like I was doing stand-up comedy instead of silently screaming inside my head. And I smiled and said thanks, because what else do you say to someone who doesn’t have a clue?
But inside, I was furious. Furious at her for not noticing how hard I was struggling. Furious at myself for not being better at hiding it. Furious at the whole damn situation, because how the hell do you explain to someone that being awake feels like a battle you’re losing every single day?
It’s weird to think about that now. The frustration, the helplessness, the feeling that I was broken in some fundamental way. It’s not like I don’t feel broken anymore—I think we all carry a little bit of that—but it’s different. I know what to call it now. I know what it is, and more importantly, what it isn’t.
But back then? It felt like I was the problem. Not the hypersomnia. Not the misdiagnoses. Not the years of doctors handing me pills for things I didn’t have. Just me. Like I was defective, and everyone else was operating on some secret manual I’d never gotten a copy of.
Here’s the part I hate admitting: I kind of gave up for a while. Not on life or anything dramatic like that, but on trying to be understood. Trying to fit into the world the way everyone else seemed to. I just decided, screw it, I’ll figure it out on my own.
And I did, sort of. I built a business. I made it work, in this messy, chaotic way that probably looked impressive from the outside. But it was all duct tape and caffeine and naps at the wrong times. Like trying to drive a car with half the engine missing. It worked, but barely.
When I finally got the diagnosis, it was like the universe had flipped a switch. Just one little pill, and suddenly, I was awake. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. Awake to the fact that I’d been living on scraps of energy for over a decade. Awake to the time I’d lost, but also to the fact that I was still here. Still fighting. Still figuring it out.
The thing I didn’t expect was how much that time—those years of exhaustion—had shaped me. I’d spent so long trying to squeeze productivity out of every tiny window of energy that, once I finally had a full day to work with, it felt like I’d been handed superpowers. Like I’d leveled up in a way most people couldn’t even imagine.
And here’s the wild part: I wouldn’t change it. Not the misdiagnoses, not the years of frustration, not even the moments where I wanted to give up. Because all of it taught me how to fight for myself. How to keep going when the odds felt impossible. How to appreciate the days when I wake up and the world feels a little easier.
People love to talk about resilience like it’s this thing you can just decide to have. But that’s not how it works. Resilience isn’t something you choose. It’s something you earn. You earn it in the moments when you don’t give up, even though every part of you is screaming to stop.
I don’t know if I’d call it a gift, exactly. That feels too neat, too tidy for what it really is. But I know this: the things that break you are often the same things that build you back up, piece by piece, into someone stronger.
If you want to hear the story—the messy, unfiltered version of how I got here—you can check out the video I made about it.
Leave a Reply