Writing When Tired: What I Do When I Have Nothing Left

Today I want to talk about writing when tired. Why? Because I’m exhausted! There are days when writing feels easy. The words flow, the ideas connect, and I start to believe I might actually know what I’m doing.

And then there are weeks like this one.

The kind where I’ve been covering classes all week, losing my prep periods one by one like socks in a dryer. The kind where grading piles up, curriculum planning sits in the corner judging me, and by the time I finally sit down to write, my brain has quietly clocked out for the day.

This was that week.

I am exhausted. I am beyond exhausted. I don’t even have the energy or ambition to get up out of this chair and go to bed. I’m that tired.

And yet… here I am, writing anyway.

Writing When Tired Is Still Writing

I keep reminding myself that writing when tired still counts.

Not my best writing. Not my most brilliant or inspired work. But it still counts.

There’s this idea that writing only “counts” when it’s focused, polished, and meaningful. But most of my real writing doesn’t happen that way. It happens in between responsibilities, after long days, and in small pockets of time when my energy is already spoken for.

Showing up tired is still showing up.

Because if I waited until I felt capable of doing my best writing, I wouldn’t be writing at all.

My Brain Isn’t Broken, It’s Just Full

When writing feels harder than usual, it’s really tempting to think something is wrong.

This week, though, I know exactly what it is.

I covered classes – a LOT of them. I adjusted on the fly. I answered what felt like a hundred questions every period. At the same time, I’ve been mentally juggling grading and lesson planning. And if nobody asks me if they can go to the bathroom this weekend, I’m counting it as a miracle.

My brain isn’t broken. It’s just full. Completely maxed out.

There’s a real “mental load” to teaching, and it adds up fast, especially when preps disappear and everything becomes triage. This article from the University of Virginia nails the idea in a way that made me feel very seen: The Mental Load of Teaching.

So when I sit down to write and feel like I have nothing left, I’m trying to remind myself that it’s not failure. It’s capacity. I already used my best energy somewhere else.

Lowering the Bar (A Lot)

This week is not about brilliance. It’s about continuation.

So instead of asking myself, “Can I write something great today?” I’ve been asking:

• Can I write one paragraph?
• Can I edit one section?
• Can I jot down one idea for later?

Today, the answer is this post.

This is what I have the mental bandwidth for. This and nothing else. And honestly, that has to be enough, because tomorrow is another day.

If This Helped, Try This Next

If this feels familiar, I wrote a bit more about this in Writing Rituals for Tired Brains, where I share some of the small things that help me keep going on low-energy days.

Messy Writing Days Matter More Than I Want to Admit

Here’s what I’m slowly learning, even when I don’t love it:

Consistency isn’t built on my best days. It’s built on my most ordinary ones.

The tired days. The distracted days. The “I barely have anything in me” days. You know… the ones otherwise known as life.

Those are the days that quietly shape who I am as a writer.

Because every time I show up anyway, I reinforce something important, even if I don’t say it out loud:

I am someone who writes, even when it’s hard.

Giving Myself Credit (Even When I Don’t Want To)

This week was a lot. I know that.

I adapted. I showed up. I did my job. I kept things moving forward even when my schedule didn’t cooperate.

And somehow, I’m still here, writing.

That has to count for something.

So if all I have today is a few paragraphs, or even just the intention to come back tomorrow, I’m letting that be enough.

Because writing isn’t about perfection. And writing when I’m this tired definitely isn’t.

It’s about not disappearing from the page.

Because the truth is, I can’t pour from an empty cup… and I definitely can’t write with an empty pen.