Tag: rest

This piece talks about a recent stroke and what came after. Nothing graphic.

Toni Peters. September 16, 2026.

This morning I sat with a group of women for two hours and listened to them talk about their lives. The challenges, mostly. There was a lot more challenge than opportunity in that room, if I’m honest.

One word kept surfacing. Boundaries. Who has them, who doesn’t, who’s scared to death to set one. Every woman had a version of the same story.

But there was something underneath the boundaries that I couldn’t shake. These women were tired. Not sleepy. Tired all the way down. The kind of tired that’s been building for years and has nowhere to go.

I know that tired now. I met it thirty-two days ago.

You’ve had a stroke

I woke up not feeling right. Figured I was dehydrated, so I drove myself to the ER and asked them to hang a bag of fluids. The doctor ran some tests and came back with a sentence I’ll hear for the rest of my life. “You’re not dehydrated. You’ve had a stroke.”

I was stunned. The next twenty-four hours were the worst of my life. The worst headache I’ve ever had. Throwing up long after there was anything left to throw up. I never once pictured a stroke into my life. But who does?

Here’s the part that matters. In the days after, there were mornings I could barely get out of bed. And mornings I knew better than to try. And for once, I listened to my body. It was telling me it needed to rest. It needed to heal. It needed time to make sense of what had happened and what it meant for the rest of my life.

For once. Sit with those two words, because they’re the whole thing.

It took a stroke to make me rest. Not a hard week. Not a warning. A stroke.

My body had to take the choice clean out of my hands before I’d finally give it what it had been asking me for all along.

And I don’t think I’m rare. I think I’m the rule.

The two kinds of hard

Somewhere we learned to treat exhaustion like proof we’re doing it right. Like the tired is the receipt for a life well spent. We wear it. We compare it. A lot of us women especially were raised to believe that suffering and virtue are the same thing. That the good woman is the one still standing after everybody else sat down, running on fumes, smiling about it.

So we stop telling the difference between the two kinds of hard.

Some hard is worth every bit of what it costs you. Raising your kids. Building something that matters. Loving people who don’t make it easy. That hard leaves you tired in a way that means something.

And some hard is just grinding you into the floor. Taking and taking and giving nothing back. We keep carrying it because we think putting it down would make us weak. Or selfish. Or a bad mother, a bad wife, a bad Christian.

Most women were never given permission to even ask which one they’re in.

I see it in my own girls. My oldest is trying to wrap her mind around her boy, my grandson, with a broken neck from a football tackle. My youngest is a young mama raising two toddlers on her own with next to nothing to work with. They’re tired down to the bone, both of them, and they’re too far inside it to see it.

I keep asking myself. How did we get here? And the bigger one. How do we carry what life throws at us without it driving us into the ground?

Show me where it says that

This isn’t a faith problem. I want to be clear, because I already know what somebody’s going to say.

Somebody’s going to tell me God will never put more on us than we can stand.

And I’m going to ask them to show me where it says that in His Word.

Because it isn’t there. The verse people reach for is about temptation. That He won’t let you be tempted past what you can bear, and He’ll give you a way out. It says nothing about grief. Nothing about a wrecked body. Nothing about a woman so worn down she can’t lift her head off the pillow. Somebody took a promise about temptation and turned it into a command to suffer without a word. And that lie has kept tired women tired for a very long time.

God never asked you to be a martyr to your own life.

So here’s where I’ve landed, thirty-two days in.

The difference between hard and harmful starts with one question you’re allowed to ask. Is this worth what it’s taking from me? Or is it just wearing me down to nothing?

You don’t have to wait for your body to answer it for you. I did. I don’t recommend it.

Rest isn’t the reward you get after you collapse.
You’re allowed to take it before. You’re allowed to take it now.

If you ever wake up not feeling right the way I did, call 911. Don’t drive yourself. I got lucky, and I’d rather you didn’t have to.