Issue # 116 | Date April 24th 2026 | Previous issues​

Hey Reader,

Yesterday, I woke up and my body delivered a clear message: Today is a rest day. The kind where you stay in bed all day.

As a feral housewife, I preach that kind of tiny rebellion. (I better practice what I preach, right?)

I had a choice to make.

Listen—or push on, ignoring my intuition?

Last week, I was miserable. I had multiple doctor’s appointments, took other people to theirs, and did it all with stress, bloating, cramps, and a headache each day.

What would you have done?

I chose to listen to my body, and I’m glad I did.

I didn’t literally stay in bed all day. I just divested myself of all responsibilities and shoulds. I focused on moments of joy. On freedom. I let my mind drift like a boat without a sail. I took a nap.

This type of ‘relaxing into life’ isn’t easy—especially for women like me, who over-function, over-manage, over-give, over-produce, and quietly equate rest with laziness, selfishness, or proof of worth.

Working and giving are important, but at the right time and in the right amount.

What I’ve noticed lately is that even the basic activities feel burdensome. I often have to push myself to do simple things like cook, clean, socialize, and exercise. I even have to push myself to do things I normally enjoy.

It could be depression or it could be depletion.

It’s kind of like spending all of the money in your bank account until it blinks RED—and then when you withdraw again and get a big fat denial, you scratch your head wondering: what happened?

See the trap?

You care, carry, anticipate, support, encourage, pray, manage, give, tend, soothe—and never stop to consider the consequences.

You erase yourself from the giving equation.

Or, you give yourself pennies and expect to be rich.

That’s what it looks like to live from obligation instead of desire, from duty instead of joy, until your soul stages a quiet rebellion.

A selfish person doesn’t usually grieve that she has lost her joy.

A depleted person does.

And that's the ache for so many women I know.

It doesn't have to be this way.

I’m learning these lessons over and over, and needing to hear them again and again. I imagine you do too.

Healing happens in layers. At different times. In chunks. Sometimes so small we barely even notice. Other times, awareness hits us over the head and it hurts.

It’s one thing to feel behind in life.

It’s another thing entirely to feel like your tiredness, your limits, your lack of desire, and the parts of your life that still feel unfinished are proof that you should be disappointed in yourself—or that God is disappointed in you.

That’s a brutal way to live.

And I know that tension well.

What if the goal is to care without disappearing?

To stop giving yourself crumbs.

To unclench and let your nervous system stop bracing.

To stop abandoning yourself in the name of love, duty, maturity, spirituality, or goodness.

That doesn’t mean becoming cold, selfish, or unreachable.

It means learning to stay warm, present, loving, and kind—without vanishing.

It starts small.

It may be rest (or a walk).
It may be tea.
It may be silence.
It may be saying no.
It may be doing less in the kitchen and letting other people fend for themselves.
It may be admitting out loud that you refuse to be an efficient machine (and getting weird stares while saying it).

There's wisdom in tending to your inner space.

Not just free time on the calendar, but inward spaciousness where nothing is pulling on you.

That kind of space is rare. Precious. Which is why, if you’ve ever had a stretch of time where nobody wanted anything from you, you know how unforgettable it can feel.

So today, you do not need to pick the best thing.

You need one thing that does not feel like self-abandonment.

Many of us were taught that love looks like endless availability.

Endless patience.
Endless emotional labor.
Endless sacrifice.

We were taught to call it kindness.

To call it motherhood.
To call it faithfulness.
To call it being a good wife, a good friend, a good Christian, a good woman.

Maybe wisdom is not pushing harder, not abandoning yourself, and not calling depletion a character flaw.

Wisdom is telling the truth about what you need, and honoring it without shame.

Here's a question you might like to journal about:

What would it look like to care for others without disappearing in the process?

Not: How much more can I give?

But: What does love look like when I stay present to myself too?

With love,

Anna

P.S. Rest is not the reward for finishing everything. Sometimes it’s the only way to stop disappearing.

​aferalhousewife.com​