I Thought I Was Too Sensitive — Turns Out I Was Maxed Out

I thought something was wrong with me.
Not in a dramatic way.
In a quiet, constant way.

The kind where you notice yourself snapping at nothing, needing breaks you don’t feel entitled to, feeling tired in a way sleep doesn’t seem to touch — and then immediately judging yourself for it.

Why am I like this.
Why can’t I handle things better.
Other people manage. I should too.

I kept treating my exhaustion like a personality flaw.
Like evidence.
Like a verdict.

I told myself I was being dramatic.
Too sensitive.
Lazy, maybe.
Undisciplined.
Definitely failing some invisible test everyone else seemed to pass without studying.

But the truth was quieter than that.

I wasn’t breaking down.
I was running on fumes.

I was trying to live a full life with an empty tank,
and then criticizing the car for stalling.

Every emotional cup already at the brim.
No space left for noise, requests, small inconveniences, or one more thing said in the wrong tone.

And instead of noticing that,
I blamed myself for reacting like someone who had nothing left to give.

There’s a particular kind of cruelty in that.

Being depleted is hard enough.
Judging yourself for it makes it heavier.

I thought my irritability meant I was unkind.
My need for breaks meant I was weak.
My overwhelm meant I was incapable.

But nothing new was wrong with me.
Something was used up.

That realization didn’t fix anything overnight.
It didn’t suddenly give me energy or patience or grace.
It just softened the way I spoke to myself.

And sometimes, that’s enough to breathe again.

So when I’m tired in a way that feels embarrassing —
when my reactions feel bigger than I want them to be —
I still catch myself wondering
why I can’t handle it.

And then I notice how empty things already feel.