Feeling Depleted

Posted on March 27, 2013 by

I’m feeling depleted. As much as the rich brown earth of my backyard garden is bursting with new green growth on the rose bushes, brilliant red and yellow tulips, and creamy white fragrant freesias, my mind and my heart are drained. Dwindling. In need of refueling.

Freesia ×hybrida Freesias Photo by Jean Tosti ...

Freesia Photo by Jean Tosti License GFDL

The last several months have depleted me, left me questioning – often those big sticklers, like, Am I really doing the job I’m meant to do, and Is this right and fair and just, and what can I do about it?

I definitely have moments of extreme despair as I watch things that I love dissolve in front of me. I’ve watched injustices before my eyes, children confused at the choices other adults have made, and I must remain painfully silent.

I don’t like to be silent. I grew out of that years ago.

As I stuff the reasons back inside, the depletion festers and stirs and sometimes erupts in rage, fear and indignation.  It feels unsettled. Unfair. Sad.

My mind spins it around and around until I’m dizzy with the thought of it all. Logic, rationales and what seems to me to be ‘right’ is losing to…what is wrong. Illogical. Irrational.

My heart-it cracks. It oozes with the pain of relationships built purposefully over time, suddenly tossed into the turbulence of what someone else thinks should happen. It blends into a muddle of someone else’s perspective, someone else’s control.

The silence depletes me.


june (Photo credit: the past tends to disappear)

I tell myself that it really will be ok. That this is temporary, and in June I will breathe again. I can tell the real truth about what pushes me deeper and deeper into introspection and despair. I tell myself to listen, to watch, and to look for openings for light to shine through. I know now to look for change, for help, for a guide to lead me out of this moment and into a new space.

I tell myself to be patient, and that surely truth will show itself.

But the silence. It slows my breathing. I clutch the pillow to my chest, exhale, stretch, and really feel it. I feel it engulf me, slow me down, and surprisingly, give me a moment of hope.

My hope grows in the sunshine, in the vibrant pinks of the primrose, still fighting to share their fading beauty. It grows in the dusky red pansies planted in stone pots, their faces following the sun. And the iris, strong, tall and majestic, who remind me that beauty comes from deep within, despite the conditions.

In the silence I hear the doves calling to their partner, the dog barking in the distance, and the call from my son announcing he’s home. At least one of my questions has been answered.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Comments: 6

  • Sara

    March 28, 2013

    So beautifully written, Jennifer. I will be keeping you in my thoughts and prayers…. the light will most certainly shine through again. xo
    Sara recently posted…What Ails Me… MigrainesMy Profile

    • Jennifer Wolfe

      March 29, 2013

      Thank you, Sara. Today is the beginning of my spring vacation, and I know it will bring rest and clarity just when I need it! I appreciate your thoughts – Jennifer

    • Jennifer Wolfe

      March 27, 2013

      Thank you, Kathy. I’m sure this will pass, and I’ll be back to my old adventurous self in time for summer!

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