Something felt different in me these past few days. After my mother’s surgery, many of the household tasks she used to do shifted to me. It wasn’t that I was asked to take over temporarily—but somehow, the urge to help came strongly, even without being told. I didn’t just deliver food to my grandparents—I also helped clean their home. My grandmother often wets herself, so the house often smelled of urine. They’re both elderly, and while they can still do simple things, they’re no longer able to clean for long.
Because of this new routine, I became more disciplined. I woke up at 3 a.m. for night prayers, had an early breakfast (not sahur), then prayed at dawn. After that, I took a morning walk from 5 to 6, visited my grandparents, came home to feed the cats, clean their litter, tidy the house, and help cook. With all those early activities, I managed to leave for work earlier and arrive on time. I used to reach the office at 9:30, even though work starts at 9. Strangely, with this new rhythm, I felt light—no overthinking, no anxiety. I don’t know why.
But after two weeks, I slipped back into my old habits. I started waking up late, stopped helping with cleaning and cooking. After dawn prayers at 5, I went back to sleep. I’d wake up at 7 just to feed the cats, clean their litter, and do other cat-related chores—sometimes until 8:30. I stopped visiting my grandparents daily. I felt weak in the mornings, low on energy, and unmotivated. Even the things I used to do lightly now feel heavy and reluctant.
And after reflecting, I realized this isn’t a failure—it’s a shift in energy. Those first two weeks weren’t just about discipline, but a response to urgency—my mother recovering, my grandparents needing help. I moved because of love and responsibility, and my body adapted. But hearts and bodies have limits. When things settled, it’s natural that my drive softened. That’s not failure. That’s rhythm.
What I miss might not be the routine, but the sense of connection and purpose. That quiet happiness came not from being productive, but from feeling useful and aligned. And now, as the rhythm changes, I’m searching again for meaning in my mornings.
I’m not lazy. I’m reorienting. And I’m doing it with gentle awareness. That’s already a kind of strength.
After all the questions and expectations, this is where I exhale.
There’s something I often feel when I’m at my grandparents’ house. One time, I was mopping the floor, and my grandfather suddenly asked, “Aren’t the other children coming?” I knew what he meant—this has always happened. When I’m there, they ask about their children. But when I’m not, they speak poorly of me. And in that moment, I felt… like I had no real place. I just came, helped, and left. But somehow, it felt like I wasn’t enough.
Is it normal to feel this way when visiting your own grandparents? Does it make me ungrateful?
The conversations there are always the same. What time do I leave for work, what did I eat for breakfast, do I bring lunch, have I applied for civil service, how much is my salary, why don’t I apply for a better-paying job. I’ve heard these questions so many times, and honestly, I’m tired of them. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh. But I can’t say these things out loud—because they’re my grandparents.
And then there’s talk about neighbors and friends. Comparisons begin: they’re married, pregnant, working at Company A, B, or C. “Why aren’t you like that?” Please. I’m living my own life too. Maybe because they don’t see my daily efforts, they assume everything based on what’s visible.
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