What a Privilege

I read something this week that stopped me cold.

I didn’t write it.

I don’t take credit for it.

But it gave words to something I’ve been feeling and struggling to name.

Lately, life has felt heavy.

Not chaotic — just full.

The kind of tired that doesn’t come from laziness, but from responsibility.

The kind of stress that shows up when the decisions don’t belong to anyone else anymore.

I’ve wrestled with it.

Questioned the direction.

Wondered if I’ve made things harder than they need to be.

There are moments where the messiness makes me forget how I got here — moments where the pressure feels like punishment instead of progress.

But the truth is, this life didn’t happen to me.

I moved toward it.

Years ago, standing in parking lots early in the morning, materials in the trunk, nobody waiting on me, nobody clocking my time — I knew exactly what I was aiming for, even if I couldn’t explain it yet.

I wanted ownership.

I wanted freedom.

I wanted work that mattered enough to cost me something.

Now I’m here.

Working midweek while the neighborhood empties out.

Carrying the weight of decisions that don’t shut off at night.

Feeling the pressure of responsibility I once only imagined from a distance.

The stress is real.

The tiredness is real.

The uncertainty is real.

But so is the privilege.

Not in a performative way.

Not in a “be grateful and move on” way.

In the grounded, honest sense — the kind you only recognize when you slow down long enough to see your life clearly.

The words I read didn’t motivate me.

They didn’t excuse anything.

They gave me permission to stop treating the weight as something gone wrong.

They reminded me that what I’m carrying now is connected to what I once asked for.

And they said it better than I ever could:

What a privilege to be tired from work you once prayed for. What a privilege to feel overwhelmed by growth you used to dream about. What a privilege to be challenged by a life you created on purpose.