There are weeks where nothing goes to plan. Things break in two directions at once, and at some point I stop trying to fix anything and just try to keep my head above water. I don't know what the right move is anymore. I just know I'm tired in a way sleep doesn't reach. Part of why these stretches feel so heavy is that they feel endless while I'm inside them. The current weight is one thing. The worry that this *is* the new shape of life — that's the heavier thing. This is one of the ayat I come back to in those weeks. The people of jannah, looking back at all of it, are settled by Allah in the home where they finally stay — *lā yamassunā fīhā naṣab wa lā yamassunā fīhā lughūb.* Two different Arabic words for tired. The fatigue you feel *while* you're doing the thing, and the exhaustion that lingers *after.* Allah names both. He sees both. And He names a place where neither one reaches you. Whatever this stretch is, it isn't the home. It's the road. The tired is real, but it's not permanent — it's the tired of a journey, not the tired that waits at the end.