fatigue - SUNGJEM AIER

I’m Fine (And Other Lies I Tell)

Sungjem Aier — Sun, 20 Apr 2025 11:30:00 +0000

I had a panic attack recently.

At least I think it was a panic attack. My hands trembled.

Could’ve been the anxiety. Might be the double shot of coffee.
Who knows. Who cares.

But I still had to show up to work and help someone else with their life…
While mine was unravelling in the background, quietly, invisibly.

I couldn’t sleep last night.
Again.

Could’ve been the racing thoughts. Might’ve been the dread in the pit of my stomach. Could’ve been everything all at once.

But I had to show up. To fix someone else’s broken pieces.
While mine were like fractured pieces across my chest.

There was a lump in my throat. My heart was doing this thing where it races, then stops, then races again. I felt helpless. Heavy. Like my mind, heart, and body were all maxed out on emotions I didn’t have room for.

But I still had to sit across from someone and help them make sense of their chaos, while mine quietly boiled under my skin. I had to soothe their fears, hold their grief, listen with empathy, offer insight, connect the dots. I had to hold space for their pain while mine sat uninvited in the corner of the room.

And no one knew.

Maybe you feel it too.

Overstimulated, under-supported

That’s the thing- emotionally intelligent people also struggle to name their own pain. Even those trained in the art of listening- therapists, helpers, healers – get lost in their own noise.

We get anxious too. We fall apart too.

We just do it quietly. Efficiently. In the dark, behind closed doors, in the moments between back-to-back responsibilities.

You see the missed calls and unread messages pile up and you turn your phone to DND.

Flight mode.

Mobile data off.

Because the sound of it buzzing makes your chest tighten.

You still show up, though. You get to work. You soften your voice, make space for their hurt, gently fit their pieces together while your own feel scattered across a hundred places.

Drowning Without a Sound

Sometimes the anxiety comes like a silent flood.
No warning, no noise, not dramatic.
Just a slow, steady drowning.

You might even look calm to everyone around you. But inside, your body is screaming in a language no one else seems to hear. The kind of scream that doesn’t make a sound because you don’t have the words to explain it.
Or the energy.
Or the permission.

You don’t want anyone to worry. You don’t want to explain. You just want to disappear for a bit without it becoming a thing.

So you hide out. In strange places. In places you don’t normally go. You avoid your own home, your regular café, the usual routes because they feel too loud with memory.

When the panic doesn’t subside, I search for unfamiliarity. For new sensations, unlikely corners, unfamiliar textures. Anything to remind me I’m still here, still moving, still outside the spiral. Anything to distract me from the ache I couldn’t name.

And you don’t want pity. You don’t want a crisis hotline. You don’t want to talk about it. Not with a friend. Not with a therapist. Because how do you explain something you don’t understand?

Running on Empty

It’s a weird kind of burnout you know, the emotional kind. Not the “I’ve been working 16-hour days” kind, but the “I don’t have the capacity to feel another thing” kind.

You want to feel less.
But also, you want to feel something.

You want to rest.
But there’s always something that needs doing.

The world doesn’t stop. Deadlines don’t care.
And yet your brain is on fire.

So I do. I show up. I fix lives. I put the puzzle pieces together for other people, even when I feel like I’ve misplaced my own.

You laugh on cue. You ask how someone’s been. You listen and end the call with, “Take care, I’m here if you need me.”

But you’re not here.

Overflowing, But Not Crumbling

If any of this sounds familiar, I just want to say, your body is begging for rest. Not sleep. But stillness. Safety. A break from having to be the one who always understands. Always absorbs. Always adapts.

You might not have words for what you’re feeling.
But you’re not the only one feeling it.

And maybe no one will fully understand. Maybe they’ll never quite get what you mean when you say “I’m fine” with a smile that feels like betrayal.
But someone out there reading this, breathing quietly like you are, gets it.

And that’s something.
That’s not everything.
But it’s something.

This isn’t a confession. It’s a reminder.

A reminder that those who carry others often carry their own weight in silence. That even the ones who seem composed can be cracking inside. Especially for people who are used to being the caregivers, the listeners, the problem-solvers, the empaths- we get so good at helping others through their storms, we often forget to notice when we’re drowning too.

So here I am, sitting in an unfamiliar study room, fingers hovering over the keys, surrounded by quiet strangers.

And I wonder:

Did I choose wrong?

Did I fail someone?

Did I fail myself?

And then I’ll wake up tomorrow. I’ll do it all again.
I just hope someone sees the version of me that didn’t make it to the room.

The post I’m Fine (And Other Lies I Tell) first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.

Forgiveness Fatigue and the Cost of Always Being Kind

Sungjem Aier — Sun, 23 Mar 2025 12:00:00 +0000

I’ve always been the person who preaches forgiveness. The one saying “just let it go,” brushing off hurt and moving forward without holding grudges.

But the older I get and the more life decides to humble me, I realize there’s only so much forgiving you can do before you start losing little pieces of yourself and you start confusing forgiveness with self-betrayal.

Somewhere deep inside, I’d internalized this idea that if I chose not to forgive, it somehow made me a bad person. Ungodly. Unkind. Falling short of the “good example” I thought I was supposed to live by. That guilt creeps in when you least expect it. Even when you’re protecting yourself.

The Bigger Person Problem

At some point, always being the bigger person just starts making you feel… smaller. And I’ve come to learn that maybe the problem isn’t you; but maybe you’re just hanging around too many little people.

(And no, this is not about height. I’m 5’1, life from this altitude is already humbling enough.:))

I mean the people who never take accountability. The ones who leave you with the mess. The ones who expect you to do the emotional labour of forgiveness while they screw up over and over again.

There’s this silent, never-ending expectation to just keep forgiving. To turn the other cheek and take the high road. But no one talks about how lonely the high road is when you’re the only one walking it.

When you reach this point of realization, it’s not about forgiving them.

It’s about asking yourself why you’re still sitting at the same table with people who keep serving you pain.

Is forgiveness always the answer?

In therapy, we talk about forgiveness a lot- how it’s essential for healing, how holding onto resentment can keep you stuck, how you have to forgive others, and even yourself, to finally move on.

But I find myself wondering… Is it really forgiveness that you need? Or is it just release? Is it simply the act of putting the weight down, regardless of whether or not the people who hurt you ever change?

I used to think forgiveness worked like one of those fake-it-till-you-make-it things; like peace would follow if I just kept pretending I was over it. But it never did.

And what does forgiving yourself even mean? How do you do it? Is it true you can’t move forward until you do?

It’s one thing to forgive other people for what they’ve done. But forgiving myself for the times I stayed too long, tolerated too much, kept turning the other cheek when I knew I was running on empty? That’s been harder.

But Doesn’t Forgiveness Heal You?

You hear it everywhere- “Forgiveness is part of healing.” “Forgive yourself to move on.” And yes, there’s truth in that.

But there’s a part that often gets overlooked: Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened. It doesn’t mean excusing the harm. And it definitely doesn’t mean forcing yourself to feel peace when all you feel is hurt.

There’s a point where forgiveness stops being healing and starts being harmful:

When it’s about survival, not growth.
If you’re just trying to keep the peace, not stir the pot.
When you’re handing out second chances like candy to people who’ve already chewed you up and spit you out.

But here’s what I’m learning- you don’t have to forget to move on. And you can protect your peace without playing the martyr.

Forgiveness doesn’t always look like reconciliation or wiping the slate clean. Sometimes, forgiveness is simply saying:

“I don’t have to keep reliving this.”

“I don’t have to keep holding this pain.”

“I’m done carrying this. I’m done carrying them. And I’m done carrying the shame of finally choosing myself.”

That might look like forgiveness from the outside. But inside, it’s something quieter, more personal. It’s just you choosing to finally let go of what’s too heavy to keep carrying.

Is Forgiveness Even Necessary?

Here’s what I tell clients now, especially the ones who feel stuck on this idea that they have to forgive in order to heal: Don’t force it. Ride it.

Sit with the anger. Sit with the hurt. Let them run their course.

Because the truth is, anger isn’t always toxic. Sometimes it’s clarity. Sometimes it’s the only thing keeping you from going back to a place you don’t belong.

And the hardest person to forgive is yourself for:

Ignoring the red flags.

Letting them hurt you again.

Believing people would change.

But do you have to forgive yourself to move on?

I think… yes. But not in some big, dramatic, ceremonial way. You don’t have to write yourself a letter or shout it from the rooftops. Yes, you can let go of what has been eating your mind without having to be the bigger person or make excuses. You just have to decide you’re done punishing yourself for being human.

That’s it.

That’s the moment healing starts.

If You’re Feeling Forgiveness Fatigue Right Now…

Just know that you’re not a bad person for being tired. You’re not “lesser” for being angry. You’re not failing some invisible moral test because you decided your heart has limits.

And if you’re still figuring out how to forgive yourself?

Same. Me too.

That’s just part of the process. The first step is realizing you never had to be superhuman in the first place.

You Don’t Have to Do It All Today

Release isn’t linear. Some days you’ll feel light and free. Other days, the weight sneaks back in. The goal isn’t to become some perfectly healed, endlessly forgiving, endlessly loving person who never feels hurt or anger again.

The goal is just peace. Whatever that looks like for you. Maybe that’s walking away and saying, “I forgive you, but I’m done.”

And when you’re ready, in your own time, forgiveness can be yours too.

Not as a gift to them.
But as freedom for you.

The post Forgiveness Fatigue and the Cost of Always Being Kind first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.