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I sat in a room filled with 124 remarkable women, and for the first time in a long time, I felt it too. I felt seen. I felt inspired. I felt like I belonged, not for what I’ve survived, but for the strength I carry because of it.

That room carried something powerful, something sacred. We didn’t all share the same stories, but we shared the same fight. And in those moments together, I felt lighter, like the weight I carry every day had somewhere to rest.

But then I came home.

Back to the noise. The constant pull from every direction. Everyone needs something, right now, all the time. And no matter how much I give, there never seems to be enough of me to go around.

The truth is, I’m burnt out.

Not because I’m ungrateful.

Not because I don’t love the people in my life.

But because even strong women break when they’re expected to hold everything together without pause.

There’s a strange sadness that sneaks in after the high of being celebrated. You go from feeling extraordinary to feeling invisible again, like life didn’t get the memo that you were in a room full of powerful women and left feeling like maybe you were one of them.

Real life doesn’t wait for your healing. It doesn’t slow down for your burnout. It just keeps coming.

And yet, even in this exhaustion, I know this much: being remarkable doesn’t always look like confidence or poise or public recognition. Sometimes it looks like crying in the bathroom, then walking back into the room with your head held high. Sometimes it’s answering the phone when you don’t want to talk. Sometimes it’s getting out of bed when your body and soul beg you to stay under the covers.

Maybe that’s the part they don’t say out loud, being remarkable doesn’t mean you always feel it.

It just means you keep showing up.

And I’m still here. Still showing up. Even when the applause fades.