I didn’t mean to break down again.
But it wasn’t cinematic either. It was just me, locked in the bathroom, leaning against the counter, and crying. Not long. Probably less than two minutes. Just enough to let the pressure ease so that I could breathe again.
I’d been running too hot for too long. Again. Four and a half hours of sleep a night for weeks, and once again telling myself it was “just temporary.” Just one more project, a few more emails, and a few more late night pushes—and then I’d rest. I’d earned it.
Except, rest isn’t something you earn. It’s not a reward. It’s one of those thing that keeps you from falling apart.
When I came back to my desk, I didn’t dive back into my inbox. I opened my journal instead. I typed until my hands ached. I wrote about nothing and everything—exhaustion, fear, inadequacy, the absurd treadmill I keep putting myself on.
I felt the tears again, but I let them quietly roll down my face while the words continued to spill out.
Somewhere in the middle of all that digital ink, I thought about my wife in some other part of the house. So I pushed back from the computer, stood up, and found her. No words. I just wrapped my arms around her and kissed her.
For a moment, it was enough.
I used to believe that having enough gratitude was some kind of prevention against exhaustion. That the fact I have a family I adore, a wife I deeply love after twenty-four years, and a roof that’s only leaked a little bit should immunize against days like that.
“Should.” There’s that word again.
Years ago, someone told me, “Stop shoulding on yourself.” It stuck like peanut butter on bread. Because life doesn’t get lighter just because you can list all the ways it’s good, even great. You can be grateful and still be overwhelmed. You can love what you have and still forget it’s there.
I do, all the time. I forget that the best part of my day isn’t the last item checked off a list — it’s my wife’s laugh from the kitchen, the sound of my kids talking to each other in the living room, or the way the house settles into a comfortable rhythm at the end of the day.
But I forget. And then I sprint again, convinced I’ll finally feel whole or worthy once I “earn” the rest I’m entitled to.
I think that’s why I’ve been circling this question for days now: What if the life I keep chasing is already here?
I’m not sure I know what to do with that yet.
There’s a part of me that still wants to earn it, still wants to push harder, still wants to prove I’ve done enough to deserve the stillness I keep postponing.
But another part of me — maybe the better, growing part — keeps pulling me back to that moment in the bathroom. To the cry I didn’t plan. To the hug I didn’t schedule. To the life that doesn’t need to be chased because it’s standing in the doorway waiting for me to notice it.
I don’t have this figured out. I probably never will.
But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe I just need to remember that sometimes the work isn’t in running faster. Sometimes it’s in stopping long enough to see what’s already here.
And that is enough.
Thanks for reading, and before you go. . .
I’m Aaron Pace. I write from the middle of things — life, business, fatherhood, faith, and the slow work of becoming someone I can live with. Not as an expert, but as someone trying to pay attention.
If this piece resonated with you, I’d be honored if you followed along here on Medium. I write — not because I’ve arrived, but because I’m finally moving again.
If any of this resonates with you, I wrote a book you might appreciate.
It’s called You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free — a collection of my reflections on identity, meaning, and building a life I don’t want to run away from.
You can check it out here:
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