This was one of those weeks that looked fine on paper and fell apart in real life.
Work was busy — not the kind of busy you can prepare for, but the kind that stretches quietly across the day. Meetings that ran long. Emails that needed answers now. People who assumed time was something I had neatly folded and ready to hand over.
I didn’t.
I was late everywhere.
Not dramatically late. Just constantly behind.
Late school drop-offs.
Late pick-ups.
Late to reply.
Late to remember what I’d promised myself I wouldn’t forget.
Snacks were forgotten more than once.
I realised halfway through the day that I hadn’t eaten properly, again.
Coffee stood in for meals. Tiredness stood in for patience.
There were moments I could feel the judgement — mostly imagined, sometimes real.
People who don’t understand what it means to hold too many things at once.
People who think being late is a choice, not a consequence.
By midweek, my body felt heavy in that familiar way.
Not sick.
Just worn.
I caught myself apologising more than necessary.
Explaining when no one had asked.
Trying to make my tiredness sound reasonable.
Somewhere between a rushed pickup and a forgotten snack, I realised something simple and uncomfortable:
this week wasn’t failing — it was full.
Full of work.
Full of responsibility.
Full of small humans who still needed me, even when I had very little left.
There was no big lesson.
No tidy ending.
Just the quiet decision to stop expecting myself to move faster than I can.
If this week taught me anything, it’s this:
being late doesn’t mean I don’t care.
Being tired doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong.
It just means I’m human — and this season is heavy.
And for now, that has to be enough.
— forget ME nots…
for every version of you, still here.