Thoughts of a Stoner: I Think We're All Just Tired as Fuck

You know what?

I don’t actually think most people are lazy.

I think we’re just… tired. Like, soul-level tired. The kind of tired sleep doesn’t fix.

Because think about it — when did life quietly turn into this constant performance? Always responding, always explaining, always proving you’re doing enough. Enough healing. Enough productivity. Enough growth. Enough positivity. Enough “handling it.”

And the fucked up part?

Half the rules we’re trying to live by were never explained. We just absorbed them. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, we learned that rest needs permission, emotions need to be justified, and struggling is only acceptable if you’re doing it quietly.

So now here we are. Exhausted. Overstimulated. Wondering why simple things feel so hard. Blaming ourselves instead of questioning the system that keeps asking for more.

And you know what messes me up the most?

We talk about mental health like it’s this personal failure. Like if you’re anxious or depressed or burnt out, it must mean you’re doing something wrong. Not that the world is loud as fuck, fast as hell, and designed to squeeze people dry.

No one teaches you how to exist without being “useful.”

You’re either producing something, improving something, or fixing something — and if you’re not, you start feeling guilty. Like you’re wasting time. Like you’re falling behind some invisible clock that never stops ticking.

But behind on what?

And according to who?

Because time is weird as hell. Five minutes can feel unbearable, and years can disappear without warning. We act like everyone should be hitting the same milestones at the same pace, even though we all started from completely different places with completely different baggage.

Some people were given stability.

Some people were given survival skills.

Some people were given trauma and told to “be resilient.”

And then we line everyone up and say, “Okay, go.”

That’s wild.

You know what else is wild?

How mean we are to ourselves.

We replay old conversations like crime scenes. Zooming in on moments where we wish we’d said something smarter, stronger, calmer. As if the version of us back then had access to the knowledge we have now.

It’s fucked up to punish past-you for not knowing the future.

Most of us were just trying to get through the day without breaking. And even when we did break? That wasn’t weakness. That was information. That was your body and mind saying, “Something isn’t working.”

But instead of listening, we shame ourselves. We label it as failure. We push harder. We override every signal until we’re numb or sick or completely burnt the fuck out.

And then we’re surprised when we can’t function.

Here’s a thought that hit me way too hard:

What if you’re not broken — you’re just overstimulated?

Too many notifications.

Too many opinions.

Too many expectations.

Too much pressure to always be okay, available, improving, smiling.

No wonder your nervous system is fried.

No wonder you shut down, scroll endlessly, cancel plans, need space, crave silence. That’s not laziness. That’s self-preservation.

Rest isn’t something you earn after you’ve destroyed yourself. It’s something you need so you don’t. And I’m so tired of the narrative that says you have to hit rock bottom before you’re allowed to slow down.

You don’t.

You’re allowed to rest because you’re human.

You’re allowed to change because you’re learning.

You’re allowed to say “this isn’t working for me anymore” without writing a fucking thesis explaining why.

And here’s another one — changing your mind isn’t betrayal.

Outgrowing people, places, beliefs, or versions of yourself doesn’t make you fake. It makes you honest. Anyone who demands consistency at the expense of your well-being isn’t asking for loyalty — they’re asking for comfort.

You don’t owe anyone the version of you that almost broke you.

I think a lot of us are grieving lives we thought we were supposed to have. Timelines we internalized. Versions of ourselves we tried so hard to become because we thought they’d finally make us feel safe, accepted, or enough.

And letting that go hurts. Even if it’s necessary.

But you know what?

There’s something kind of powerful about realizing you don’t need to be fixed.

Maybe the work isn’t becoming someone else.

Maybe it’s giving yourself enough quiet, enough patience, enough grace to actually hear who you are underneath all the noise.

Not the productive version.

Not the healed version.

Just the real one.

Anyway.

I don’t know.

Just a really high thought.

But it feels true.

~Morgan, All of Me