Editor’s Note
This one’s for the tired ones. The ones still standing, barely, because they had to be.
I wrote it for the part of me that still thinks asking for help is weakness, even when I know better.
It’s not polished. It’s not pretty. But it’s real.
For anyone who’s ever had to fight to find their people, this is for you.
These Weary Bones
oh these weary bones
that rattle like a snake
deceived by a mind
that won’t shut up
the motormouth
spinning stories,
dizzying the insides
of my head.
I rose from nothing,
like a loaf
left too long in the oven
punched,
kneaded,
left to burn.
I’m no damn island.
more a battered village
clinging to a cliffside.
fingernails split.
hands bloodied.
still, holding on.
a stubborn mule
clutching pride
even as hands reach out.
I know
I’m not alone.
this world
all rage
and righteous rot.
keep your petty poppycock
step the fuck aside
if all you bring is
cruelty
and showmanship.
no space left on this rock
for exploding egos
and fair-weather saints.
I’ve bled too much
to share ground with cowards.
The Comfort of a Clan
I’m tired. Not the “I stayed up too late” kind of tired. No, I’m talking about the kind of tired that lives in your bones. The kind that whispers, “you’re doing too much again,” even while you keep pushing. My MS flares love to remind me what happens when I don’t listen.
Still, I keep going. And honestly? I’m not even sure how.
But here’s one truth I know: I am incredibly lucky.
I’ve got a clan. A real one. A village. A tribe. A group of humans who love me hard, hold me up, and never ask for anything in return but the truth. I think of the people who don’t have that, who face the grind alone, and my heart breaks a little.
Yes, I feel sorry for myself sometimes. I think that’s normal, especially when your body betrays you. But even then, I remind myself, I am one of the lucky ones. I don’t have to do this alone.
Well, except I often try to.
Because, truth be told, I am a stubborn old bag. Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve been fiercely independent for over 16 years. Before that? I was stuck in a situation where I had no choice but to rely on someone who resented every second of it. It nearly broke me. But I got out. With the help of my family and years of therapy, I found myself again.
So no, I don’t like asking for help. It reminds me of what it used to cost me. But these days, my body doesn’t give me the luxury of pride. And I’m learning, slowly, to trust that help doesn’t always come with strings.
For the first time, I’m in a relationship that feels like home. Not perfect. Not a rom-com. But real. Equal. Honest. Communication is the currency, not control. We walk beside each other, no one dragging the other along. It took me long enough to find this. But god, it was worth the wait.
Here’s something else I’ve learned:
Surrounding yourself with the right people? It’s everything.
I’ve trimmed my circle right down in recent years. No room for the energy vampires, the performative friends, the ones who disappear when things get hard. I don’t need a crowd. I need a few solid souls who remind me who I am when I forget. Who challenge me, support me, and never let me shrink.
You don’t have to agree on everything, politics, religion, parenting styles, or pineapple on pizza. What matters is respect. Empathy. The ability to sit across from someone and say, “I don’t get it, but I’m here.”
Imagine a world where that was the norm instead of the exception.
Imagine a culture built not on outrage and ego, but on kindness and curiosity.
Yeah, I know. Sounds like a pipe dream.
But honestly? I think it starts with us. With our little villages. By refusing to let the world make us bitter. Choosing over and over to love louder than the noise.
It still takes a village. Maybe now more than ever.
And I’m holding onto mine with everything I’ve got.
Enjoy your weekend, folks.
Kate x
