Wired but Tired.
When exhaustion meets adrenaline.
“Just going to go upstairs for five minutes,” I told my husband, the words making it out but without any real oomph behind them. My body felt like dead weight against the momentum of the day. I closed the door behind me, a clean break from the kids doing handstands on the chair, spray-painting their new school clothes, and “crafting”—hundreds of tiny paper scraps drifting down like snow onto the carpet.
Wired but tired, I lay down after work yesterday, having spent most of the day dragging my body through space like one of those tire exercises in a CrossFit competition. I closed my eyes and put a pillow on top of my face—not in a creepy way, but in a please shut out the world and don’t remind me I have to make dinner sort of way.
The moment my body hit the sheets, my thoughts lit up—a bolt of adrenaline, a zing of worry, a random to-do list reminder. It was tempting to force myself out of bed, reach over to the side table, grab my phone, and start working again. My 23 seconds of rest would be enough, right?
But I didn’t.
Instead, I made myself stay still. I let my mind tire itself out, bringing it back again and again to my breathing like a good mindfulness practitioner should. I pictured each racing thought as a helium balloon, tugging on its string, gently guiding it back down to earth, tying it to my anchor. After a few minutes, the balloons slowed. My heart rate steadied. I could feel the pleasant weight of my body on the bed.
This is what “wired but tired” feels like: a body that’s exhausted and a mind that won’t quit. Several clients this week described their own version of September stress—physically worn down but restless, agitated, and unable to sleep. I see it in my kids, too: dark circles under their eyes while they insist they’re not tired, their chorus of Dairy Queen requests on repeat. And I see it in myself—moving through the day with a sluggish body while my mind jackhammers away.
What’s Fueling It
Part of it is the whiplash of September—shaking off summer’s looser pace and trying to force ourselves back into structure and routine.
Part of it is the cruel shock of the news cycle. Political violence. Endless division. The constant churn of things we’re supposed to care about, argue about, despair about. Still reeling from the most recent tragedy before we’re hit with another.
And part of it is our devices. These little rectangles we’ve declared essential for living are constant invitations to overstimulate, distract, and harden ourselves against being grounded and tethered.
Over the last week, three different people told me they turned off social media as an attempt to break the habit I’ve noticed in myself, too—every spare second, the response is to pick up the phone. Not long ago (like days ago, can you believe that?), when the news was breaking about Charlie Kirk’s assassination, I refreshed and suddenly there it was: the execution itself, the bullet, the murder. My neighbor later told me her 15-year-old saw it too, in a casual scroll.
This is not something our brains should have to process. We can’t go from watching someone shot in real time, to a cat video, to a recipe suggestion. It’s too much. It’s what makes us wired but tired.
The Psychology Bit
There’s actually a term for this: hyperarousal. When the nervous system gets overstimulated, we can feel revved up and exhausted at the same time. It’s the same body that’s meant to keep us alive in emergencies—but modern life (with its news feeds, alerts, and constant images) keeps flipping the alarm switch without giving us enough time to reset.
A Small Way Back Down
I’m trying o back to that image: each thought like a balloon, tugged gently down to earth. My breath, the anchor. My body, heavy on the bed. Staying put instead of grabbing the phone. Noticing small things, slowly and quietly. Breathing.
It’s not about doing it perfectly—it’s about noticing when you’re wired but tired and giving yourself permission to tether back down.
A Gentle Invitation
So here’s my invitation for you (and me!) this week:
Notice when you feel both revved and drained.
Experiment with one tiny practice that helps tether you back—maybe it’s setting your phone down, closing your eyes, or feeling the weight of your body in a chair.
See if even two or three minutes can make a difference.
Put down the phone.
The balloons will always rise again. But you can always tug them back. Anchor down. Rest. Even for three minutes at a time.