2AM Doesn’t Lie

Tonight I am not just tired…
I am the kind of exhausted that lives in your bones.
The kind that no amount of sleep can fix—
because it’s not just physical… it’s mental… it’s emotional… it’s everything. For the last 48 hours I’ve maybe slept 10 hours.

But still—
I show up.
I answer calls.
I handle my business.
I take care of everyone who needs me.

Because that’s who I am.

But 2AM?
2AM doesn’t care who you are.

At 2AM there’s no mask.
No “I got it together.”
No strong face.

Just me…
sitting in the quiet…
holding my baby…
crying…
begging God—
please… just let him sleep.

Not for me.
For him.
For both of us.

And then morning comes…
and I carry on like I’m not breaking in places nobody can see.

That’s the part people don’t understand.

On the outside, life looks good.
It looks stable.
It looks strong.

But behind closed doors…
this journey is one of the hardest things I have ever walked through.

Harder than heartbreak.
Harder than loss.
Harder than my own divorce.

Because this isn’t something I can fix.
This isn’t something I can walk away from.
This is motherhood… in its rawest, realest form.

And some days… it hurts.

I want to hear my baby talk.
I want to ask him how his day was…
what made him laugh…
what made him mad.

I want the things other parents complain about.
The “Mom, watch this.”
The endless questions.
The noise.

I would give anything…
to hear his voice.

And yes… I question God.

Why me?
Why my baby?
Why this path?

And before anyone rushes to say “you were chosen”—
just know…
being chosen doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Because it does.

In ways I don’t always say out loud.

People love me.
I know that.
They show up for me.

But they don’t feel this.
They don’t live this.
They don’t sit in the silence I sit in.

And that kind of loneliness…
hits different.

But tonight…
standing outside…
looking at the sky…
with tears I didn’t even try to stop…

I realized something.

There may always be a storm on my horizon.

But every single time—
the sun still finds its way back.

And maybe that’s my answer.

Not clarity.
Not understanding.
Just… hope.

The kind you don’t always feel…
but you choose anyway.

Because no matter how tired I am…
no matter how broken I feel in the quiet moments…

I will still get up tomorrow.

I will still show up. And I will still be his voice…
until the day I finally get to hear his.