there’s this one scene in the devil wears prada—andy’s unraveling in the break room, her hair a mess, coat still on, eyes wide with the weight of it all. she says she’s trying. she says it’s impossible. and nigel, calm and cruel in the way only truth can be, tells her: “andy, be serious. you’re not trying.”
i keep coming back to that. not because i think i’m lazy, or stupid, or unmotivated. but because i feel like her. standing in a place i didn’t exactly planned to be, overwhelmed by it, narrating my stress like it counts for something. thinking i’ve done enough just because i’m tired.
i’ve been exhausted. anxious. overwhelmed. i’ve felt the weight of constant motion—spiraling, second-guessing, searching. and i told myself that meant i was trying. that if i felt like i was falling apart, i must have been giving everything. but lately, i’ve started to wonder if what i’ve been calling “effort” is just friction.
i think about that a lot now. how easy it is to confuse internal chaos with external effort. how i’ve built entire narratives around my stress and worn them like proof of my dedication. but stress isn’t the receipt for progress.
i don’t have a clean ending for this. i’m still tired and stuck in that weird space between burnout and inertia, movement and momentum, spiralling and striving, feeling everything and doing something. maybe i’m not trying either.