Bills on the counter again, laundry still sitting unfolded. Coffee gone cold by the window, mind moving faster than the day. Everybody talks about purpose, while just getting through the week already feels heavy sometimes. Running low… Running low… Running low, trying not to show it, smiling while the pressure keeps growing. Somewhere between surviving and hoping, I keep searching for peace in the noise. Like the woman reaching through the crowd, just hoping healing still exists somehow. Traffic lights and tired mornings, scrolling through everyone else’s best days. Wondering why comparison steals joy so easily. And maybe that rich young ruler wasn’t only talking about money — maybe sometimes we all hold onto things that quietly own us. Running low… Still breathing… Running low, trying not to show it, carrying weight nobody notices. Somewhere between fear and faith, trying not to lose myself again. Like the woman reaching through the crowd, still believing healing can be found. Maybe exhaustion isn’t always from doing too little… maybe it comes from carrying too much alone. Running low, but not abandoned, even tired hearts keep moving. And maybe faith looks less like certainty — and more like reaching anyway.