Fighting Monsters When You're Tired

This isn’t going to be a long post, because I’m too tired to write much this week.

But that’s ok. Because I know this story.

These last few weeks have battered everyone. Rising seas and corrupt systems, thick smog and thin empathy. News headlines throb like battle drums. The climate is in crisis, democracy is wobbling, injustice is rampant.

Throw in a family crisis, a health scare, or a job wobble, and suddenly it can become all too much. That’s what happened to me this week.

I’m tired. You’re tired.

You care. You try. But you’re tired.

My sword is becoming heavier in my hand. My muscles ache from raising it again and AGAIN in so many of the same old battles.

Would it really make that much difference if I just…stopped?

Thankfully (or frustratingly), I’ve read, watched and heard so many of our collective stories that I recognise this feeling. In every story I love, there is this dark middle. And the only difference between a tragic and an uplifting ending is whether people give up.

Exhaustion and overwhelm aren’t failure - they are a chapter. And across centuries and continents, fiction has spoken directly to this moment: not the exciting beginning of the fight, but the long middle. The messy, disheartening, relentless part where you’ve already shown up, and the monster still isn’t defeated. Or worse, you begin to realise that there will always be monsters.

So, how do we keep going?

As I’ve often written about before, to be human is to live in a story. Our very essence is narrative, and myth has held, taught and sustained us for literal millennia.

It can offer true comfort, and guidance, in this moment.

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The Midpoint Is Always the Hardest

In stories from across cultures, the greatest test comes not at the start, but after the hero has already failed once…or twice…or more.

In the Yoruba folktale of Ìjàpá the Tortoise, it’s not his first trick that works to gain his shell. It's his persistence, failing smarter each time (I love these short illustrated versions of his tales if you haven’t discovered him yet).

In Epic of Gilgamesh, one of the oldest surviving texts on earth, the hero’s grief after Enkidu’s death brings him to the brink of giving up. Only then does he begin to change, to listen, to learn what real strength is.

In the beautiful Tale of Genji from Japan, the fragility of life is emphasised through transience. The pain of loss isn’t something to be avoided, but understood and even cherished.

And of course, in my favourite work of climate fiction, The Lord of the Rings, the faithful Sam says:

“It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer.”

These stories don’t promise comfort. They offer truth: that the middle of the story is muddy and brutal, and sometimes you will want to stop.

You’re not alone in that. But you’re not done, either.

Exhaustion Is Part of the Path

Literature shows us that the ones who carry on while exhausted are often those who create lasting change.

Psychological research backs this up. Burnout isn’t just individual; it’s systemic. But narrative coping - the ability to frame your struggle as part of a larger story - can reduce emotional fatigue and increase resilience.

This phenomenon is hugely important for folks working to make the world a better place. Seeing yourself and your struggles as part of a large story doesn’t erase your burdens, but can make them bearable. Even meaningful.

Try thinking of those who came before you, and those who will follow after you’re gone, as a shining chain of ‘trying to do the right damn thing even when too tired to do anything’.

You Don’t Have to Fight Alone

When you're tired, monsters become bigger. That’s how they win; not just by doing harm, but by isolating you. Every dystopia begins with loneliness.

But literature insists on something else: you are never truly alone.

In Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, the key to survival is community, not rugged independence. Lauren, the protagonist, builds a new world while wounded, grieving, exhausted…and with help.

In the Indian novel Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh, characters of vastly different backgrounds form a makeshift family, crossing oceans of pain and empire. The monster of colonial exploitation is not defeated alone, but through collective imagination and care.

And maybe that’s the core lesson: your strength doesn’t always come from inside. Sometimes, it comes from beside.

That’s why I write these posts. It makes me feel less alone, feel part of something, knowing that you are reading. Even in this simple act, we are together. I am connecting with you as my fingers hit the keys in this moment. We are not alone.

Small is Beautiful

The monsters we fight are huge and strong. The systems of harm, the climate feedback loops, and the long shadows of injustice, are all vast.

Feeling tired is a natural response to opening any news app.

But remember this: every great story, every lasting myth, is built around someone who kept going anyway.

So if today all you can do is grieve, then grieve.

If all you can do is plant one seed, then plant it.

If all you can do is rest and whisper, ‘not yet,’ that too is part of the story.

As the Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad wrote:

"I will plant my hands in the garden
And grow, I know, I know, I know..."

Because monsters aren’t just fought with fire. Sometimes, they’re fought with flowers. With friends. With breath. With love.

And always with stories.

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