When Life Feels Too Full

There are days when my thoughts feel heavier than my body. I carry them everywhere — into the quiet of the morning, into the middle of my studying, into the stillness of the night when I should be resting but can’t. Between trying to set love aside for now, pushing myself to study, and wondering what’s next for me, it feels like my mind is running a race I never agreed to start.

Sometimes, I wish I could just run away from everything — escape the thoughts, the feelings, the responsibilities — but I wouldn’t even know where to go. No matter how far I ran, my thoughts would follow. That’s the hard part about carrying so much inside: there’s no real hiding place from yourself.

There are moments when I get lost in my head, so submerged in the looping thoughts that I forget to include myself in the life happening around me. It gets heavy — heavy enough that I can’t enjoy a laugh with a friend, a warm cup of coffee, or the simple pleasure of sunshine on my face because my mind is somewhere else. Being present becomes a skill I have to practice, not a place I naturally rest.

And the funny thing is, no one around me has a clue what’s really going on in my head. They see me smiling, nodding, showing up like everything is fine. I’ve gotten so used to hiding my heaviness behind a smile that it almost feels automatic now. It’s easier to pretend than to explain. It’s easier to laugh along than to risk being the “heavy” one in the room. People see the version of me I allow them to see — lighthearted, composed, put together. But what they don’t see are the nights when my thoughts keep me awake, or the mornings when I wake up already tired from the battles I fought silently in my mind. They don’t hear the doubts, the worries, the constant questions echoing inside.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if someone really knew — if someone could see past the smile, past the “I’m fine,” and into the storm I try so hard to contain. But until then, I keep carrying it quietly, balancing the two worlds: the one everyone sees, and the one only I live with.

Letting go sounds simple in theory. You make the decision, you close the door, you tell yourself it’s done. But my heart doesn’t work like that. It lingers. It remembers. It wonders. I’ve had to learn that this doesn’t mean I’ve failed; it means I’m human. Healing isn’t flipping a switch — it’s learning to live with the echoes until they soften.

Then there’s studying — the steady responsibility that keeps me moving forward, even when everything else feels uncertain. Some days I am focused, determined, almost proud. Other days my attention frays and I worry I won’t get where I want to go. Lately I’ve been learning to count the small wins: another page read, a concept that finally clicks, a minute I choose study over giving up. Progress doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers.

And always, in the background, there’s the question: what’s next? It feels both hopeful and terrifying. I want answers, clarity, a map. Instead I feel God asking me to trust, to move step by step, to accept that not knowing is part of the process. That’s hard. I want the whole picture, but maybe this season is teaching me to be okay in the in-between.

I’m learning — imperfectly and slowly — that being tender with myself doesn’t mean stopping; it means showing up differently. It means pausing when the weight is too much, leaning into small acts of care, and trusting that the pieces are being arranged even when I can’t see it.

Life feels too full sometimes. Maybe fullness isn’t something to escape from but something to carry with gentleness — one small step, one soft breath, one tiny decision at a time.