I once had a colleague lovingly tease me about how I constantly complain about being sleepy.

Not in a mean way. In a we’ve-noticed-a-pattern way.

Apparently, phrases like:

“I’m tired.”
“I’m sleepy.”
“I need to wake up.”
“I need a Red Bull.”

Exit my mouth with impressive frequency.

Often daily.

Sometimes hourly.

And honestly? They’re not wrong.

I am tired.

This is not a personality flaw. This is math.

I wake up at 5am. I complete approximately 101 tasks before 7am. There’s life logistics. There’s mental to-do lists. There’s the quiet heroism of getting dressed while half-conscious. Then I head into work, where the day becomes a series of small fires that require immediate attention.

Put out one fire. Turn around. Another fire.

Repeat.

So yes. I complain about being tired.

Who wouldn’t?

Fatigue is not a character defect. It’s a byproduct of showing up.

Then there are my legs.

My legs have opinions.

They get restless. They hurt. They demand movement like they’re staging a tiny protest march. Sit too long? Unacceptable. Stand too long? Also unacceptable. They require variety. They require pacing. They require interpretive walking.

Add to that the fact that with all this activity, I’m often hungry. Not cute hungry. Practical hungry. The kind of hungry that makes you stare into the fridge like it personally betrayed you.

And then I finally get home.

Which is when I lodge my next formal complaint.

There is never anything good to watch.

We currently have 100s of streaming services. Or so it seems.


That’s not entertainment. That’s decision fatigue with opening credits.

What is the point of having so many subscriptions if I still spend twenty minutes scrolling before giving up and rewatching something I’ve already seen?

Make it make sense.

So yes, I complain about being tired. And hungry. And sore. And bored. And annoyed by annoying things. And occasionally by stupidity. (Let’s be honest, stupidity has been having a strong year.)

But here’s the funny part.

I complain about all of it and then I laugh.

I laugh at myself. I laugh at the absurdity. I laugh because even in the middle of exhaustion and minor grievances, I still find humor in the whole messy production.

Psychologically speaking, that matters.

Complaining isn’t always negativity. Sometimes it’s processing. Sometimes it’s bonding. Sometimes it’s naming reality out loud. And sometimes it’s just how we let off steam before we get back up and keep moving.

I don’t complain because I hate my life.

I complain because I’m in it.

I’m engaged. I’m active. I’m doing things that matter to me. I’m tired because I care. I’m hungry because I move. I’m annoyed because I notice. I’m bored with TV because I still expect stories to surprise me.

And somehow, through all of it, I manage to keep my sense of humor.

That’s the real headline.

So yes! I’m sleepy.

Pass the Red Bull.

But I’m also laughing.

And honestly? That feels just fine.