There Are No Superheroes on Four Hours of Sleep
The cape is still there.
Hanging.
It’s not giving up.
It’s listening when your heart says STOP.
I deserve my SIESTA.
I crashed.
Not dramatically. Not publicly.
But inside? Full spiral.
Sad. Angry. Vulnerable.
All the thoughts went down the drain.
Nobody sees my effort.
Nobody recognizes it.
This heart project? Stupid. Lame. A ridiculous fantasy.
I haven’t been running enough.
Two weeks ago I felt like I could go for a record.
Now I’m wondering if I’m even going to finish at all.
Work colleagues. Family. Friends.
Everyone wants a piece. Stretching. Pulling.
Deadlines. Texts. Needs. Requests.
No one calling just to ask.
No one offering.
Just constant demand.
I’m not cutting it.
I’m not making it.
I’m fucking all this up again.
I overate.
Got edgy. Critical. Short.
Panic crept in.
And the worst part?
I believed the spiral.
I cried myself to sleep Friday night.
I slept longer than usual — so long that I had to force myself out for a long run past noon.
I’m usually done by 9 a.m.
It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t fast.
But somewhere around mile five (what is it about the fifth mile, runners?) the fog loosened its grip.
It wasn’t performance.
It was survival.
All of this didn’t happen in a vacuum.
It was State of the Union week.
Late nights. High stakes. Tension in every edit.
The Clinton/Epstein hearing broke late — delicate, political, reputations hanging in the balance.
Many sides. Many narratives. No room for error.
My crew and I got it all in. On time.
Even when audiences ran long.
And then a message came down from way up there.
One of my bosses.
He saw it.
The preparation.
The pressure.
The tightrope.
He understood how tense it can be to get things right in that moment.
That mattered.
But this isn’t about waiting for applause.
That’s another post.
Here’s what I realized:
Despite the fog.
Despite the self-attack.
My news reports were strong, fair, and on time.
I did my blog.
I did my newsletter.
I planned and cooked meals.
Checked on my family.
Washed clothes.
Read.
Logged over 25 miles.
Not my fastest. Not perfect.
But the miles were logged.
That’s not collapse.
That’s exhaustion.
During one editing session my Garmin went off.
The alert was loud — I had to shut down the siren.
Heart rate over 100 bpm.
Just sitting there.
This wasn’t drama.
It wasn’t in my head.
My body was lit up.
You can’t out-discipline biology.
I’m not back at 100%.
Lost sleep and bad eating don’t clean up overnight.
But now I know:
I didn’t crash.
I didn’t burn.
I didn’t fail.
I stretched myself too thin.
I gave it my all.
And there are no superheroes on two days of four-hour sleep.
So this weekend I chose to take it easy.
The cape is still there.
Hanging. Waiting.
It’s not giving up.
It’s listening when your heart says STOP.
Mine spoke loudly.
I deserve my SIESTA.
