Let me be clear: I am exhausted. Not just tired, not just drained, but hollowed out. This isn’t the kind of fatigue that a nap, a spa day, or a self-help book can fix. It’s the kind that settles into your bones, that turns every breath into labor, that makes existing feel like a full-time job with no benefits and no paid time off. For years, I built something I believed in—something I poured my soul into. My marriage, my home, my life’s foundation. I didn’t just show up for it; I curated it with intention. I chose every detail with care, tended to it with love, and believed with everything in me that the effort would mean something. That it would be worth it. But effort means nothing when you’re the only one making it. I thought we were both working on this masterpiece, this life we built. But one day, he put down his tools and walked away, leaving me to hold up the weight of it alone. And like a fool, I stayed. I kept watering a garden that no longer had two caretakers. I ...