When the Line Drops

I didn’t have to write this.
I just looked at the graph.

94 down to 32.
Then the moment he leaves — a soft curve upward.
My body starts recovering as soon as he’s gone.

And that’s the kind of grief I don’t know how to talk about.

Because I love him. Of course I do.
But loving him doesn’t stop the exhaustion. It doesn’t cancel out what it costs my nervous system to keep it all together — to stay regulated, patient, present, even when I’m already empty.

This isn’t just being tired.
This is what it looks like to parent when you weren’t parented.
To try and give emotional safety from a well that was never filled.

And no one sees it.
No one knows what it takes just to not shout some days.
What it takes to tuck him in kindly when I feel like I’m falling apart inside.

But the watch sees it.
The graph sees it.
And maybe that’s enough proof for today.

This isn’t failure.
It’s love — wearing a body that’s learning, slowly, how to rest without guilt.

Reflective Question for You:
Where in your life does your body tell the truth — even when your words can’t?

Body battery tracking from the day described. The drop and recovery says it all.