Some days she can’t begin to imagine how she will get through, but every single day she makes it to the other side.
She listens, she cares, she gives, she works, she ploughs her way through an endless list of tasks, an endless list of people who need her.
And finally, when the sun has set, she falls into bed, weary, exhausted, yet unable to find peace for the thoughts, worries and fears which are plaguing her every moment.
She tosses and turns; planning, remembering things she forgot, punishing herself for every spinning plate she let drop that day. Worrying that there were people she missed, things she could have done better.
Worrying that she was not enough to everyone.
Never stopping to consider that she maybe, she was not enough for her herself.
That there was nothing in her day, for her.
When the sun rises, she hauls her tired body out of bed and the whole routine begins again. Always with the thought that maybe, just maybe, this day would be the day that she didn’t make it through.
But she always does.
She always does.
Some days she doesn’t know how she will do it.
But every single day, it gets done.