I Thought I Was Anxious. Turns Out I Was Grieving.

This morning I woke up feeling like I wanted to crawl out of my own skin.

My stomach felt off. I had barely slept. I kept waking up from vivid dreams about people from my past. I was restless, exhausted, overwhelmed, and my kids weren't even awake yet.

I knew they would be home with me all day.

I knew there would be whining.

I knew my youngest would spend the day asking for daddy.

I knew my oldest son would probably push boundaries and invade everyone's personal space.

I knew there would be fighting over phones.

I knew the house was already a disaster from the day before.

The kids had gotten into my nail polish and managed to spread it onto things around the house. Our grocery pickup had been delayed, so we were running low on food and wouldn't be able to get groceries until later that afternoon.

The day hadn't even started, and I already felt defeated.

Like many mornings when I feel overwhelmed, I went looking for answers.

I looked at my astrological transits.

I wanted to know what was happening.

Why I felt this way.

What lesson I was supposed to be learning.

What cosmic explanation could make this feeling make sense.

Instead, I got pages of insight.

And reading every word made me feel worse.

More overwhelmed.

More anxious.

More restless.

More irritated.

At one point I realized something uncomfortable:

I wasn't looking for understanding.

I was looking for relief.

And those aren't always the same thing.

The more I read, the more I realized I didn't need another explanation.

I needed someone to acknowledge that I was drowning.

Because sometimes when you're overwhelmed, the last thing you need is another thing to think about.

Eventually the conversation shifted away from astrology.

Away from transits.

Away from spiritual lessons.

Away from healing.

And toward something much more uncomfortable.

Resentment.

Not resentment toward my children.

Not resentment toward my husband.

Resentment toward my life.

Resentment toward the fact that everything feels so hard.

Resentment toward how much everyone needs from me.

Resentment toward the endless responsibilities.

Resentment toward the version of myself that I thought I would be by now.

That's when the floodgates opened.

Because if I'm being completely honest, the thoughts running through my head weren't kind.

They weren't compassionate.

They weren't healed.

They weren't enlightened.

They sounded more like this:

"I'm incompetent."

"I'm physically unhealthy."

"I'm boring."

"I'm a daydreamer."

"I've had the time."

"I've had the resources."

"I should be further along by now."

And there it was.

The real wound.

Not the anxiety.

Not the parenting stress.

Not the messy house.

Not the delayed groceries.

The belief that I should be further along than I am.

I should be healthier.

I should be further ahead with my blog.

I should have my website finished.

I should know how to manage my time better.

I should have fixed my credit.

I should have started my coaching business.

I should have a stronger social life.

I should be more involved in groups.

I should have a sex drive.

I should have figured this all out already.

The list goes on.

And maybe that's what hurt the most.

Not that I haven't accomplished those things.

But that every day I wake up and compare myself to the woman I thought I would be by now.

The woman who has it together.

The woman who followed through.

The woman who figured out how to balance motherhood, healing, purpose, relationships, health, business, and personal growth.

The woman who exists in my head but not in my reality.

And every time I compare myself to her, I lose.

No wonder I feel exhausted.

No wonder I feel defeated before the day even begins.

No wonder it's hard to enjoy anything.

I think what I discovered this morning is that underneath my anxiety was resentment.

Underneath my resentment was disappointment.

And underneath my disappointment was grief.

Grief for the life I thought I would have.

Grief for the woman I thought I would be.

Grief for all the versions of myself that never materialized.

The kids still woke up.

The groceries still weren't here.

The house was still messy.

My problems didn't magically disappear.

But something shifted.

For a moment, I stopped calling myself incompetent.

For a moment, I stopped trying to fix myself.

For a moment, I stopped looking for another explanation.

And I admitted what was actually true.

I wasn't failing.

I was grieving.

And maybe those are two very different things.