You Don't Call It Losing Your Drive. You Call It Losing Yourself.
He reaches over and something in you goes still.
Not angry. Not even tired, really. Just nothing. And then you lie there in the dark feeling like the worst person alive, because he's a good man and you love him and you can't explain why your own body won't show up for him.
So you get good at the small stuff. You go up twenty minutes early. You laugh it off. You say you're wiped, and you are, but that's not the whole of it and you both know it.
You mentioned it to your doctor and got fourteen seconds and a shrug. You mentioned it to a friend and got "girl, same," like that's meant to be a comfort. So you stopped mentioning it. You decided it's your age, your stress, your kids, the year you've had.
Nobody sat you down and told you it can come back.
