Capacity Is a Boundary

Sometimes, if we are able to listen and turn inward, our bodies tell us the truth long before we are ready to hear it.

After this recent stretch of holiday gatherings, travel, emotion, and responsibility, I can feel how depleted I am. I am exhausted. I am tapped out. Yesterday my body made it impossible to pretend otherwise. It told me to stop. It told me to slow down. It told me that if I kept pushing, I would get sick. Balancing my own family time while also supporting others means I have been running on empty for days, maybe longer. Not enough rest. Too much movement. Too many moments of putting myself second. Now I am paying the price.

I am sitting here feeling the early signs of illness settling in while staring at a week that is already full. Life does not pause just because we need it to. Yet this moment is inviting me to look closely at the questions I often avoid. What could I have done differently. What would it have looked like to listen sooner. Where might I have created space for rest. What could I have said no to before my body had to intervene.

When I look back, I see all the small signals I ignored. The deeper fatigue at the end of each day. The irritability that creeps in when my system is overwhelmed. The heaviness in my shoulders and the fog in my thoughts. My body was clear. It was communicating with me the whole time, but I kept telling myself that I could keep going. I did what so many of us do. I pushed. I minimized. I convinced myself that tending to everyone else mattered more than tending to myself.

Now my body has shifted into a stronger language. The runny nose. The pressure behind my eyes. The slow drag of my limbs. It is not punishment. It is not failure. It is communication. It is wisdom. It is the only way my body can get my attention when the quieter cues have been ignored.

So instead of shaming myself, I am choosing reflection. Where could I have softened. Where could I have placed a boundary. Where could a simple “I cannot do this” have spared me from the spiral I am in now. These questions are not meant to point fingers. They are invitations to return to myself with compassion.

Listening to the body is a practice. It is ongoing. It is imperfect. It requires honesty and tenderness, especially for those of us who navigate chronic illness, disability, trauma, or long histories of overriding our own needs. Our bodies do not betray us. They guide us. They ask for care in the language they know.

So today, as I sit here tired and on the edge of sick, I give myself permission to slow down. I let my body speak. I let myself listen. And I hold the hope that next time, I will notice the whisper long before it has to become a plea.