Two Kinds of Tired

There’s more than one way to be tired.

Some days, it’s the weight of illness, mortality, and the shrinking horizon ahead. Other days, it’s the weight of relationships, silence, and words that don’t land where they should.

Both kinds of tiredness are real. Both wear on the spirit. But writing is where I reclaim them—where I can name what’s heavy and still find what’s worth holding on to.

What follows are two reflections:

• Tired — the fatigue of illness, uncertainty, and still choosing to move forward.

• Another Day of Tired — the fatigue of fractured conversations, misunderstood truths, and still choosing to believe in connection.

  
  

Two different kinds of tired.

One voice.

Tired

I am tired. Tired of what, I don’t even know anymore—just tired of being sick.

Tired of not being who I used to be.

Tired of existing instead of living.

Tired of having this death sentence hanging over my head.

Tired of the uncertainty.

Tired of having to face each day with a kind of despair I never thought I’d know.

Tired of a daughter who can’t see her way to talk with me.

Tired of silence where there used to be conversation.

Tired of looking at the world from the outside in.

Tired of measuring every plan, every thought, every moment against a shrinking future.

Tired of pretending it’s fine when it’s not.

Tired of wondering if anyone sees how heavy this really is.

Tired of watching good men—friends, brothers in this fight—pass from this terrible disease before their time.

And yet… I am not carrying this alone. I have friends and loved ones who stand beside me—steady, patient, unshaken. They hold me when I falter, make me laugh when the darkness feels too close, remind me that I still matter here. They cannot take the illness from my body or the uncertainty from my mind, but they share the weight, and that keeps me from being crushed by it.

Even in my exhaustion, there is still movement. I still plan my expeditions. I still seek out the far and hidden places of this world—not to escape, but to embrace the beauty that remains. Next week I will board a flight to Iceland, beginning a month in expedition mode—through Iceland, Greenland, and the Northwest Passage. Maybe I will see a polar bear, or orcas, or other ocean wanderers while kayaking. Maybe I will stand again on a shore where the world feels untouched. Because even when tired, I want to keep living in wonder.

I want to feel the sun on my face without counting how many more times I will.

I want to feel the sea spray against my cheek while I paddle.

I want to continue to see the world from my vantage point—with awe and wonder.

I want to laugh without the shadow of goodbye in the corner of my mind.

I want to hear my daughter’s voice, unguarded and warm.

I want to hear the sweet freedom of Bill Evans as he goes off on Autumn Leaves.

I want to taste a fine wine with my beautiful lady.

I want to have one more day—just one—where I move through the world as if nothing is wrong.

I want to savor the view of another sunrise from a mountain top.

I want to feel the embrace of my daughters.

I want to smell the pine and spruce of my yard.

I want to finish my meditation park with bridges, koi ponds, and places for introspection.

I want to feel the adrenaline rush one more time as I ski down a mountain or surf a wave.

I want to finally play a song for Annika.

I want to live, not just endure.

I am tired, yes. But I am here. And for now, that will have to be enough.

Another Day of Tired

Here I am again—another day, another round of being tired of all the bullshit.

My daughter reached out, but I wasn’t in the mood for a tongue-lashing.

I am tired of people believing that expressing their truth is more important than having a real conversation—a full duplex exchange, where listening matters as much as speaking.

Then, when I texted her mother to find out what the discussion was going to entail, she gave me what-for for not calling her back. Why can she wait weeks before responding, but my waiting twenty-four hours is not acceptable? Another thing I am getting tired of—these dual measurements.

I am tired of having to defend myself.

Tired of carrying the weight of being misunderstood.

Tired of the silence that follows when the words don’t land right.

Tired of accepting that sometimes, all I really have is the pen and the paper.

But the pen and paper are mine.

They don’t judge, they don’t interrupt, they don’t twist my words into something else.

Here, at least, I get to be heard.

And still—I want more.

I want conversations that go both ways, where honesty doesn’t come wrapped in blame.

I want to sit across from someone who can hold my truth without trying to silence it with their own.

I want to feel seen without having to fight for the space to exist.

I want to speak without the need to defend, and to listen without fear of being attacked.

I want dialogue that heals instead of dialogue that wounds.

I want my words to land in open hands, not closed fists.

I want to know that, even in the mess, connection is still possible.

Because tired as I am, I still believe in the power of being heard—really heard.

And until that happens, I’ll keep turning to the pen and the page, because they never fail me.

Closing Reflection

Tiredness comes in many forms—the body breaking down, the heart breaking open, the conversations that fail us. But even here, even in this weariness, there’s a pulse of life still pushing forward: the expeditions still planned, the beauty still sought, the words still written.

Because tired does not mean finished.

Tired means I’ve carried much, and yet—I am still here.