Mind & Body, Ponderings, Raw

A Letter

We were kind of hit with a lot last year. There were stretches of whole months in which I had to put on a brave face and push forward.

But I kept going because I had to, you know? Life still demand attention to detail and calls to action. I didn’t have time to mourn my grandmother passing because we were simultaneously evicted (new management) from our housing. I couldn’t deal with that either because we were put up in temp housing so we had to constantly be on the lookout for a new place.

On top of everything, starting a new position at my job which required all of my brain power.

And we both got Covid. GW was even hospitalized.

On Christmas Eve.

So when I tell you I’m burnt out, I mean there is nothing but cold, gray ash in my soul.


We’re in a better place now.

In the back of my mind, I fretted over this sense of apathy that took root in my brain. I find no joy in my old hobbies. I instantly lose interest in books. I could sit down and force myself to read, but feel absolutely nothing.

The apathy stretches into my personal life too. I could explain it as a general disinterest in, well, everything.

I know I’m happy. I put a little energy toward the house and yard. It doesn’t last long.


I’m reminded of something my therapist said long ago. She likened our emotions to our physical body. If you’re in a car crash – a bad one – it takes months, maybe years to heal fully. There might be residual scar tissue. It’s the same for your emotions.

What I take from that now in this season of apathy is kindness.

I’m being kind to myself. The apathy isn’t something to hate. It’s a part of the healing process. I’m allowing myself to feel nothing, knowing my emotions have been battered and smashed up, and it’s going to take some time to recover from that.

I remind myself I am still happy. I’m in a happy season of life. I don’t need everything to be as full and meaningful as it once was. I just need to be present in this season, smile because it’s good, and know that joy and meaning will return to me in time.

All we have is time, after all.

This has been,

Fanny Crispin

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