I want to flower too, said the voice of consciousness last night. Actually, all it said was my name: Sara. But it was as though I spoke to myself from deep within.

Yes, yes? Yes? I tried to hear more, but the voice quiets again amidst the daily noise of thoughts and the rustle of doubts and imperfections.

I had begun to wonder whether I might be ill. The fatigue that’s plagued me has seemed frightening at times, always a sidekick. And yes, I do a lot of stuff and have been blessed with great health, and so I’m not trying to compare my experience to those who’ve suffered from chronic fatigue or mold poisoning or any other mystery physical ailment that’s sapped their strength.

I know people who have had or have a difficult time rising from their beds. While I’ve been there via depression, years back, I’ve thankfully only been there once or twice with stomach flu in recent times.

Nevertheless, my fatigue has been scaring me lately. I realized I’ve never felt rested since before I had a baby 17 years ago, and that it’s been getting worse lately. My finally getting time to rest on New Year’s Day made Tuesday feel special. I felt good. My tank felt full. But by Wednesday, the feeling of complete exhaustion was back. Stopping my life just isn’t an option even though, yes, I’m sure that each and every one of us could truly use and benefit from at least one more week completely on vacation now after the holidays and their commotion have passed. But until that dream world comes to pass, I must find a way to sustain myself better.

Perelandra’s MAP program has been a lifesaver for me for the past 25 years. It’s helped me grow and heal myriad physical and emotional challenges. Last night I finally described in systematic detail to my MAP team my fatigue, my difficulty sleeping, my anxiety, my physical symptoms and asked: Am I sick with something serious I don’t know about?

Well I muscle tested and got “yes” which of course made me nervous. But as I kept asking questions it became clear that what I suffer from is actually a mental illness of a kind. It’s a voice in my head that always compares me to what I think I should be and finds me less than I ought to be, doing less, shining less, always falling short. And I heard in my head this refrain: It’s too much, I can’t do it. It’s too much, I can’t do it. I recognized this as my soundtrack, loud and unconscious and constant as a drum beating. It’s like an inverse little engine that could. (I think I can’t I think I can’t…)

So I have been exhausting myself. I kind of knew this. I was starting to see how maybe I was not my best ally, and maybe was in fact making my life harder, but I guess I hadn’t truly guessed the extent. For MAP to describe this soundtrack as a mental illness felt refreshing, especially because I know that together we are aware of this whole pattern now and, together, we can begin to heal it.

I once had an astrological reading by my friend John Molfese, who’s now passed. He looked at my chart and told me three times in a row, “You’re way, way too hard on yourself.” And he prescribed being creative as my alchemy. Only when I’m writing or dancing or writing songs or playing music can I silence the drumbeat of self-criticism. And I have realized, through trial and error, that I must make time for my creative life or perish in some kind of weird two-dimensional fake version of myself that feels like crap. And so. But what if I could just treat myself well? Can you imagine how much nicer I might be to everyone around me, maybe how much more energy might fill my days and how much nicer they might feel?

I eye myself across the table. Oh, dearest friend or foe. Do we stand a chance? If not for us, might we do it for the world? I cannot treat others better than I treat myself. And the range of what’s possible with support is an untapped resource on this vast Earth. And all of us are exhausted. So, might inside us dwell an inner light of being-ness, of self-love and acceptance, a warm balm that could give us all everything we need to not only survive, but to shine?

I think so. I can’t prove it. I know I’ve got miles to go. But the soft light inside me guides me to look across at myself and cry. I wish to be friend, not foe, though I haven’t much experience. Will you accept me at my word that my intent is true even if I know not how I shall come through for you?

I nod, though the part of me that answers isn’t holding her breath: She’s been hurt far too much. But she’s hopeful. She looks to me with devastated longing. And I swear, I will go to the center of the Earth if I must to come through for her and for us all. It’s all I have. Will you join us? The paths of strength and forcing cannot save us now. Only the light of gentleness can bring us through.

Please help us reunite with ourselves in tender love and in Thee. Thank you, Dearest God. Amen.