You wake up after seven, maybe eight hours in bed. You're still exhausted. Not a little tired — destroyed. Like you didn't sleep at all.
You hop in the shower hoping it helps. It doesn't. You get out, look in the mirror, and just hang your head a little. Twenty pounds heavier than you've ever been.
You start getting dressed. The pants are tighter. The shirt doesn't sit right. You stretch it over your belly out of habit.
You start the coffee. You need it just to function — just to get out the door and pretend everything's fine. You make it to noon. Barely. You grab another one. Whatever it takes to grind through.
You get home. Your wife wants to talk. Your kids want your attention. All you want is the couch. You snap at the kids over nothing. You tune your wife out mid-sentence. You're not present — you're just there, taking up space.
This isn't who you wanted to be. Somewhere in the back of your mind there's a version of you that was going to be different. Strong. Sharp. Showing up for his family.