Intro

During our family holiday in Turkey, we decided to get away for a few days. Four days off. Sun, sea, sand. About five hours from our base lies Ayvalik, a peaceful coastal town on the Aegean Sea. Everything you associate with relaxation. But deep down, I already knew it before we left: I had no space left. Not physically. Not mentally. Not emotionally. My system was full. I was overloaded, though I didn’t realize it yet. Emotional overload creeps in quietly, until your body finally says it out loud. And mine did. Long before I could.

My Body Spoke First

Ever since we arrived in Turkey, I’d felt a certain tension in my body. Not obvious, but present. I couldn’t name it yet. It came and went in waves—barely noticeable while laughing on the waterslide with my son or playing catch on the beach. But the moment I rested, there it was again.

A whisper in my body:

“I’m still here. I want to tell you something. But only you can give it words.”

So I started thinking. Linking. Reflecting.

Okay, I’m listening. I’m here.

But later it returned.

And the body said,

“No… that wasn’t it. Keep digging.”

Then, while getting ready in the bathroom, I noticed a small bulge in my groin. No pain, just pressure. A mild swelling, only visible when standing. It felt like a hand was gently pressing on my lower belly. My brain, wired to scan for danger, jumped instantly: Hernia. What if it’s serious?

Old patterns kicked in. Control. Worry. Scenarios.

My breathing stayed calm. My heart was steady.

But I wasn’t calm.

And that’s perhaps the hardest part to admit.

My body wasn’t in danger.

But my system felt unsafe.

I observed. I breathed. I didn’t panic.

But it was still there.

Fatherhood Meets Exhaustion

It was just the three of us: my wife, my son, and me. And despite craving rest, I felt tension in every part of me.

My son is highly sensitive. He picks up on my inner state without needing words. Like me, he absorbs the energy of others and mirrors it. During this trip, he was constantly triggered by the chaotic energy of his cousin. He got swept up in it, bouncing from one state to another.

Normally, I respond with calm guidance. Gentle clarity. But now I had no room. No patience. No buffer.

I felt anger. Frustration. Deep fatigue. Not directed at him. But at myself.

Why couldn’t I carry this now?

Why couldn’t I stay grounded like I usually do?

Because I’ve been carrying something for too long that I never truly released.

My Grandmother

In the midst of everything, another truth surfaced. A deeper one.

My grandmother, once so vibrant and strong, is now nearing her final chapter.

Shingles. Heart problems. Pain.

Her eyes have dimmed. Her movements have slowed. Her hope flickers.

I knew this before coming. Of course I did.

But hearing it on the phone is not the same as seeing it.

Feeling it. Experiencing it with your own eyes.

That hit me.

I stayed strong on the outside.

Told myself: this is old age, it’s part of life.

But deep inside, it hurt more than I wanted to admit.

And my body knew the truth before I did.

I felt myself freeze.

Not now. I can’t deal with this too.

I don’t want to lose her. Not like this.

But life doesn’t wait for your schedule to clear.

It shows up. Raw. Real.

Just like grief does.

I’ve buried my mother. My father.

And now, the final elder in my life is fading.

And honestly?

I don’t want to carry this.

But I must.

Protection That No Longer Protects

At one point, I was lying in bed, phone in hand, elbows bent, shoulders tense, neck tight, breath shallow.

I realized my body had curled in on itself—like I was trying to protect my heart.

From the weight.

From the world.

From feeling.

And suddenly it hit me.

This is my old posture.

The posture of a boy who learned to stay small when things became too much.

Who tucked his heart in and held everything together.

But I’m not that boy anymore.

I’m a man.

And this body no longer needs armor.

It needs space.

So I put the phone down.

Straightened my back.

Opened my chest.

And breathed.

And then it happened.

The Surrender

My heart started beating more powerfully.

My breath dropped deeper.

My shoulders softened without effort.

And the tears came.

Finally.

No drama. No breakdown. Just realness.

Tears for my grandmother.

For my son.

And for everything I’ve held onto for far too long.

That doesn’t mean I’m now numb or distant. Not at all.

It means I’m honest.

Honest with myself about what is.

And because of that, I am strong enough to carry it.

Like training in the gym—you don’t lift a hundred kilos on day one.

You build it up.

Layer by layer.

Month after month.

That’s how this works too.

We all carry something.

A backpack full of pain, tension, fear, and joy.

That’s life.

You don’t have to fix it.

You only have to learn how to carry it.

And if you don’t know how, I invite you to explore it with me.

You’ll find a path just beneath this article.

What I Know Now

Sometimes your mind tells you to rest.

But your body is asking for something else.

It needs space.

It needs truth.

It needs to feel.

I’m not afraid of pain.

But I used to be afraid of vulnerability.

Afraid to say,

“I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed.”

Now, with my back upright and my heart wide open,

I know this:

I don’t have to hide anymore.

Closing

I’m not writing this to make something pretty.

I’m writing this to be honest.

There are moments when life is simply too much.

When your body whispers what your mind refuses to hear.

When you are a father, a son, a grandson—and you don’t know how to hold it all.

But if you stop holding yourself together,

if your heart is finally allowed to say,

“I’m tired. I want to feel.”

Then something new can begin.

Not relief.

But truth.

And that is enough.