I work the circulation desk at a small-town library, which means I touch the same books over and over until they feel like part of my hands. By the end of the day, my fingers know the weight of certain covers without looking. Hardbacks pull a little more. Paperbacks bend if you rush them. The biography cart is always heavier than it should be, and it always shows up when I think I am almost done.
I reshelve that cart twice most evenings because people keep pulling books back off before I finish. They apologize sometimes. Most of the time they do not notice. I do not blame them. They are in their own heads, and I am in mine. Still, there is a moment where I stand there, holding the same book again, and feel something sag inside me.
Around the last hour, my lower back tightens. It starts as a warning and turns into a dull ache that makes me lean on the counter longer than I should. I tell myself I will stretch later. I rarely do. The clock moves slower at that point. Not dramatically, just enough to make me aware of every minute passing.
I used to think that meant I had done something wrong with the day. Like if I were better organized, or more energetic, or simply tougher, I would not feel so worn down by closing time. I carried that idea home with me for years. I would replay the day while making dinner, listing everything I should have handled better.
At some point, I started writing things down at night. Nothing fancy. Just a notebook on the kitchen table. I wrote down what I did, how my body felt, and one small thing that helped, even if it was something basic like sitting down for five minutes or drinking water before the ache set in. I did not call it a habit. I just needed a place to put the day so it would stop circling.
On nights when I skip that writing, I feel it the next morning. My thoughts feel heavier. The day feels harder before it even starts. That surprised me. I always thought motivation was what got me through. I thought if I could just want things badly enough, the tiredness would not matter.
It turns out wanting is unreliable. Some days I wake up ready. Other days I do not. What keeps me steady is the routine I built around the work and around myself. Clock in. Reshelve. Take the same break at the same time. Write a few lines at night. None of it is exciting, but it keeps me upright.
I do not feel proud of this in a dramatic way. It is not a breakthrough story. It is just the truth of how I get through my days without unraveling. Routine holds me together more than motivation ever did, and admitting that felt like giving something up at first. Now it feels like relief.
The library does not change much from day to day, and that used to bother me. I thought variety was supposed to make work feel lighter. Instead, I have learned that predictability gives me something to lean on when my energy runs low. I know where everything goes. I know which carts will be heavy. I know which hours will drag.
That knowledge does not make the work easier, but it makes it manageable. There is comfort in knowing what comes next, especially when my body is already tired before noon. I can move through the tasks without negotiating with myself every step of the way.
Writing at night became part of that same structure. I do not wait for the right mood. I sit down, open the notebook, and write a few sentences even if they feel flat. Some nights I complain. Other nights I just list what happened. Either way, the act itself matters more than what ends up on the page.
I started noticing patterns once I had enough entries. The days I skipped lunch felt longer. The days I stood too much hurt more. The evenings I wrote even a little felt calmer. None of this was surprising, but seeing it written down made it harder to ignore.
What I stopped doing was judging myself for being tired. That shift took time. I had to let go of the idea that exhaustion meant weakness. Some days simply take more out of me than others. A full biography cart. A long line at the desk. Too many small interruptions stacked together.
Routine gives me permission to keep going without asking myself if I feel like it. That might sound strict, but it is actually gentle. I do not have to decide everything fresh each day. I follow the structure I already built, and it carries me when my own energy cannot.
I used to chase motivation like it was something I lost. I waited for it to return so I could feel better about my effort. Now I see it differently. Motivation comes and goes. Routine stays. It shows up even when I do not.
There are nights when I write the same sentence three times because my hand keeps stalling. I leave it anyway. The page does not need to be perfect. It just needs to exist. That simple rule has changed how I treat myself outside of work too.
I am not fixing anything grand. I am not reinventing my life. I am just keeping track of it in a way that helps me wake up the next morning without dread. That feels like enough.
A few months ago, I started noticing that my nightly writing was doing more than helping me unload the day. It was changing how I looked at the effort itself. I stopped expecting it to transform me. I stopped asking it to lead somewhere. It became part of the maintenance, like stretching a sore muscle or setting out clothes for the morning.
One evening, after a particularly long shift, I found myself stuck at the table staring at the page. I knew writing would help, but I felt worn down in a way that made even small habits feel heavy. Instead of pushing through, I paused and looked for reassurance that what I was doing still made sense.
That is when I came across a blog post someone had built about keeping a creative practice going without forcing it. I remember nodding more than once when I read it! That's always a good sign. It helped me see that showing up regularly, even in small ways, was enough.
What I liked was how ordinary it felt. Just honesty about keeping something alive through tired days. That fit where I was. I did not need encouragement to do more. I needed permission to keep doing what I was already doing.
Since then, I have been kinder with my routines. I let them be simple. I stop trying to optimize them. The writing stays short. The workdays stay predictable. I no longer treat exhaustion as a sign that I should quit something that is helping me.
The biography cart still gets reshelved twice. My back still tightens near closing time. None of that changed. What changed was how I carry it. I do not pile judgment on top of the fatigue anymore. I let the routine do its job.
Some nights I still skip the notebook. I notice the difference the next morning and start again. There is no punishment in that, just information. That mindset has spilled into other parts of my life in quiet ways. I recover faster. I stop spiraling sooner.
I am not motivated most days. I am structured. And that structure is what lets me keep going without burning out. It is not exciting advice, but it is honest. Routine is holding me together, and for now, that is exactly what I need.
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