When You’re Tired of Holding It All Together
Breathe Again, My Anxious Soul!: Because Peace Is Possible and Hope Is Closer Than You Thought.
Some days, anxiety doesn’t feel like fear.
It feels like fatigue—the kind that doesn’t go away with sleep.
It’s the exhaustion that sinks down to the bone. Not because you’ve been physically overworked, but because you’ve been mentally and emotionally on for too long. Watching. Fixing. Anticipating. Holding everything—and everyone—together.
You’re the strong one. The responsible one. The one people depend on.
And maybe that’s exactly why you feel like you’re barely holding yourself.
You smile when someone asks how you’re doing. You nod and say, “I’m good.”
You check the messages. You show up to work. You answer the calls. You help the people you love.
But if someone paused long enough to look past the polished responses, they might see it—the quiet ache in your eyes that says:
“I’m so tired. And I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
That whisper matters.
It’s not a weakness. It’s not failure.
It’s the sound of your soul trying to speak through the noise.
Maybe you’ve ignored that voice for a while. Maybe you’ve buried it under responsibilities and busyness. But it’s still there—reaching for rest. Not laziness. Not escape. Just rest.
But that kind of rest has felt impossible, hasn’t it?
You feel guilty taking time off. You feel lazy slowing down. You feel unworthy of rest unless everything is done—and everything is never done. There’s always someone else to help, another email to answer, or a situation to manage.
You’ve carried so much for so long that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to live without the weight.
And somewhere along the way, you started calling that weight “normal.”
You started calling survival “strength.”
But friend, you were never meant to live this way.
You were not designed to carry the emotional, mental, and spiritual burdens of everyone around you. You were not created to hold the weight of the world while pretending it doesn’t wear you down. You were not built to be the one who never needs help.
That’s not strength.
That’s survival.
And survival might have been necessary for a time—but it’s not the same as healing.
Your soul was made for more than just pushing through.
In 1 Peter 5:7, we find a whisper of divine permission:
“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.”
Did you catch that?
All of it.
Not the sanitized version.
Not the spiritual-sounding version.
Not the version that makes sense or feels manageable.
All of it.
The frantic thoughts you’re ashamed of.
The responsibilities that feel too heavy.
The fear that you’re failing at everything.
The resentment you don’t want to admit you feel.
The sadness that still lingers from something no one knows about.
You don’t have to clean it up first. You don’t have to explain it in perfect words. You just have to release it.
But how do you let go of something that’s been part of your identity for so long?
How do you surrender something that’s kept you functioning—even while it’s been breaking you?
You start small.
Today, take a quiet moment and write down what you’ve been carrying. Not what you should be carrying. Not what you’ve convinced yourself is no big deal. Write what’s real. What’s heavy.
The deadlines. The obligations. The expectations. The invisible rules you live by. The pressure to be okay. The fear of letting others down. The grief you’ve never given yourself permission to name.
No filters. No fixing. Just honesty.
Once it’s on the page, sit with it. Not to solve it—but to see it.
And then, in that sacred stillness, do something radical.
Breathe.
Not the shallow, autopilot breathing that gets you through the day.
But a real, intentional breath.
Inhale slowly—like someone who is finally allowed to rest.
Exhale gently—like someone who doesn’t have to be in control right now.
Do it again.
And again.
Let your breath be your prayer.
Maybe you whisper, “God, this is too much for me.”
Maybe you say, “I don’t know how to stop carrying this, but I want to.”
Maybe you just sit in the silence and trust that He’s listening anyway.
Because He is.
The God who calls you beloved never asked you to be bulletproof.
He never told you to hold it all together for everyone else.
He never once required that you carry more than you were created to hold.
He is not waiting for your strength.
He’s offering you His.
So yes, you can collapse into grace.
Yes, you are allowed to rest.
Yes, you can lay down the pressure and the performance.
Not because you’ve finished the list.
Not because the problems are solved.
But because you are carried—by a God who sees you and stays.
You don’t have to earn your way into peace.
You just have to admit you need it.
This is not the end of your rope.
This is the invitation to stop tying knots in it and start loosening your grip. It’s not your job to carry everything.
It never was.
So breathe again, my anxious soul.
You’ve been holding the world on your shoulders long enough.
It’s safe now. You can set it down.
You are not failing—you are finally being honest.
And the One who carries you is stronger than the weight you’ve been bearing.
Excerpted from the new book I released this month entitled Breathe Again, My Anxious Soul!: Because Peace Is Possible and Hope Is Closer Than You Thought.
Prefer a paperback? Check it out on Amazon!
Thank you for this post, there’s a quiet gentleness in it that I’m sure will be a comfort to many people.
As I read it I began thinking whether rest is always the invitation. Sometimes, perhaps. But not always. What if we’re not meant to lay it all down, but simply not meant to carry it alone?
Paul writes of being poured out like a drink offering (Philippians 2:17), and of labouring with all the energy Christ so powerfully works in him (Colossians 1:29). That doesn’t sound like release from the weight, but grace to endure it. Even Jesus, tired from the journey, sat down by the well (John 4:6). But the pause wasn’t for rest, this pause became a moment of ministry. He didn’t escape the need; He met it. Strength was given not in the absence of demands, but in the middle of them.
So yes, there are times when the most faithful thing we can do is rest. But there are others when the ache is the altar, and His strength meets us in the carrying, not instead of it.
I’m grateful for what you’ve shared, it allows those who are tired and silently struggling with that, to feel seen and reminded that God is both near and active in their lives.
excellent Iann.