I woke up many times from strange, unsettling dreams filled with urgency. I remember at some point the thought: it’s better to believe in God, or else I can’t ask Him to fix it.

Then it was seven thirty in the morning and I was wide awake, not at all tired. Just before that, on the edge between the dreams and wakefulness, I saw myself going through my old pictures kept in my parents house, one by one, remembering the details, tracing trauma to its context, making sense, healing.

The way my body felt in the morning has confirmed that I had pushed myself too hard yesterday. Had I been running, I’d be nursing another sports injury. I gave a quick thanks for swimming being such a gentle sport. Under the influence of Gabor Mate’s book, I decided not to treat my tiredness as an obstacle or a punishment and instead position myself in it, explore how it can nurture my body and soul. The result was pleasing. Only a mild FOMO about missing the last opening day at the pool. Instead, I did things I almost never do without obligation: cook, clean out the dark corners of the house. It felt good. Children have played outside for almost the whole day and I barely had to check on them – another blessing after years of relentless parental control and helicoptering.

I felt very calm today. Deliberate and spacious. Not tired as in hitting the wall, but tired as in letting my body take control over my relentless sense of not being enough. It felt wonderful.