Somewhere between the late afternoon light and the moment you realize it's almost time to think about Monday, something in you starts getting ready. Not excited. Not prepared. Just... armored.

When the exhaustion shows up on a Sunday evening, most of us do something specific with it. We turn it into evidence. Evidence that we're lazy. That we're not disciplined enough. That we should've gone to the gym. That other people are handling their lives better than we are. That something is fundamentally wrong with us. That move — the move from I'm tired to there's something wrong with me — is the real damage. The tiredness alone isn't the problem. The tiredness plus the

There's a name for what you might be feeling. It's not depression. It's not burnout in the dramatic, collapse-on-the-kitchen-floor sense. It's functional burnout. Functional because you're still functioning. Still showing up. Still performing the version of yourself the world expects. Burnout because somewhere underneath all that functioning, the fuel is running on fumes — and has been for longer than you'd like to admit.