You are not scattered. Yo are full.

There’s a kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep. It shows up when your body is technically upright, but your mind has quietly curled up in a corner somewhere, overwhelmed by everything it’s been asked to hold.

You sit down to work and forget why you opened your laptop. You start a sentence and lose your train of thought halfway through. You reread the same paragraph three times and still have no idea what it said. You tell yourself to focus—just focus—but nothing sharpens.

You try to be present, but your thoughts slide off the surface of your mind. You start something, but your attention drifts before it settles. And the temptation is to blame yourself. You call it distraction. You tell yourself you’re scattered, disorganised, lazy. But maybe that’s not the truth. Maybe your mind isn’t scattered. Maybe it’s just full.

Some of what we carry is visible—deadlines, meetings, decisions. But most of it isn’t. It’s the emotional load of being available to everyone. It’s the background tabs of half-finished conversations, unsent replies, the thing someone said last week that you’re still turning over. It’s the list you’re keeping in your head because you haven’t had the space to put it anywhere else.

Your mind—brilliant, loyal, always-on—isn’t failing. It’s trying to keep up with everything you’ve asked it to hold. And it’s full.

Try this.

Set a timer for seven minutes. No phone. No podcast. No inbox. Sit by a window. Let your eyes soften. Let your mind wander. Or lie down and let your body settle without asking anything of it. Not for clarity. Not for a breakthrough. Just to stop adding for a moment, and allow your system to recalibrate. You don’t need to do anything. You just need to not do everything.

When you lose clarity, the first instinct is usually to fix it. You reach for another app, a new productivity system, another attempt to control the blur. But clarity doesn’t respond to pressure. It returns when the noise drops. Fullness isn’t solved by force. It’s softened by stillness. You don’t need another strategy. You need space.

Try this.

Take out a blank piece of paper and write down five things that are looping in your mind. Don’t analyse. Don’t problem-solve. Just name them: the appointment you need to reschedule, the thing you forgot to say, the decision you keep putting off. When you’re done, fold the paper and put it somewhere out of sight. Not to dismiss it—but to signal to your brain: you don’t need to hold this all right now.

When your system says stop, believe it. Not all burnout looks dramatic. Sometimes it looks like irritability. Or forgetfulness. Or a deep need to lie on the floor and not move. That isn’t weakness. That’s wisdom. It’s your body and mind asking to be treated like a living system, not a machine.

You weren’t made to operate at full capacity all the time. You were made to ebb and flow, to process and rest. To stop holding, so you can return to holding well. When the mind is full, even simple tasks feel sharp-edged. Your thoughts stop connecting. Your energy dips. And you begin to mistake overload for personal failure. But being full isn’t a failure. It’s data. It’s information. It’s your cue to pause—not because you’re broken, but because you’re human.

Try this.

Close every tab on your browser. Yes, all of them. Then close your laptop. Let that be your full stop. Don’t replace it with another screen. Just let your brain exhale.

You’re not behind. You’re not failing. You’re simply overstimulated. There’s a version of you beneath the noise—the one who knows what matters, who moves with intention, who feels clear again. She’s not gone. She’s just waiting for a little more room. So don’t push. Don’t fix. Don’t demand that your mind run faster when what it needs is stillness. Pause. Breathe. Make a little space. Let the clarity return on its own.

You’re not scattered. You’re full. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It just means it’s time to empty. Gently. Slowly. Intentionally. And then—when you’re ready—you’ll return. Not because you forced it. But because you allowed it.