By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
Weariness is a beast that comes in many species. This week, I feel as though I’ve wandered through much of that menagerie—studying the creatures, learning (perhaps too well) their habits and their bite. Each one operates differently, much like animals in the wild. And unless you live on some carefully managed preserve, you’ll find yourself far more acquainted with these forms of fatigue than you’d prefer.
I dare say, as an average—or likely above-average—human, you will wrestle with these creatures often. Sometimes you will tame them. Other times, you will simply endure.
Let us begin with a small and seemingly harmless member of the zoo. It is so unassuming that many forget it exists. Continuing the animal analogy, this sort of tiredness is a mouse—some quiet, unnoticed rodent. You know it’s there, but rarely give it much thought.
This deceptive little creature is travel weariness.
Perhaps you scoff. I would have too. But lately, this tiny rodent has taken hold of me again and again, and each time it leaves me utterly undone.
You see, a long drive doesn’t seem like much. You’re just sitting, after all—passing time with scenery, a bit of reading, or idle scrolling (if motion sickness allows). There’s hardly any effort involved. And in my recent travels, even the destination hasn’t demanded much physical energy.
Surely, after such a day, one should have something left in reserve.
And yet—no.
This is no ordinary rodent. Judging by its aftermath, it carries something closer to plague. Every time I return home, I am completely spent. I dare not sit down if there is anything left to do, lest I slip into unconsciousness faster than an eye can reopen after a blink. Travel fatigue is a quiet hunter—and, at least with me, it never seems to miss.
Thankfully, this variety can usually be overcome with a good night’s rest.
But there are other beasts—far more formidable.
In recent weeks, my husband and I have found ourselves in the sights of one of the fiercest among them. His mother is in the hospital following a heart transplant, complicated by additional challenges. And here we encounter a deeper, more consuming kind of exhaustion: the fatigue of stress and worry.
This is no longer a creature of inconvenience. This is a predator of the soul.
You grow tired from not knowing what will happen. You grow weary from not knowing how long the road will be. You become exhausted from the endless cycle of “what ifs” surrounding someone you love. And perhaps worst of all is the helplessness—that draining, hollowing sense that there is nothing you can do.
This kind of weariness feels like a leopard.
It stalks. It waits. It strikes without warning.
There are days when you think you are managing well—steady, composed—and then suddenly you are overtaken, flooded with every emotion at once. Other days, you simply surrender, allowing yourself to be carried off by the weight of it all.
And leopards do not simply take their prey—they drag it up into the trees.
Even after the initial strike, the ordeal continues. The mind climbs higher and higher, replaying possibilities, circling unknowns, chasing outcomes that cannot be controlled. The body is already spent, but the mind refuses to rest.
It is the kind of exhaustion that leaves you feeling suspended—caught, held fast, unable to come down.
There is no simple remedy for this kind of weariness. A good night’s sleep, no matter how deep or comforting, cannot reach it.
Prayer helps. Trusting Him helps. But even these are not instant cures—they are slow, steady work.
Trust, after all, is a structure that must be built.
It takes time. It takes repetition. It takes choosing, again and again, to believe what you know to be true, even when circumstances press hard against it. Before the walls are raised and the doors are set, there will be breaches. There will be moments where the predator gets in.
Still, we build.
We hold fast to the Good we have known, to the faith that has carried us before. And though weariness will come—and come again—we can rest in this: the One who holds tomorrow is not surprised by today.
He is not shaken.
And even when our grip feels weak, that truth remains steady enough to cling to—if only we keep reaching for it.
Prose and Possibilities 