When I was a child, I could count on at least one 500-mile road trip every summer, traveling from our home in Georgia to my grandmother’s house in Illinois. In the late 1970s, there wasn’t much to do on a long car ride, other than argue with your sisters or count cars, so I usually tried to sleep during some part of the ride.

Sleeping in the car was magical, because it made time move faster. I could fall asleep in one state and wake up in another, 100 miles closer to our destination and two fewer hours spent counting cars.

Since the day I was drop-kicked into my new normal, I’ve tried to conjure that same magic by napping almost every day. For whatever reason, the hours after work/school are still the hardest – the window of time when most couples reconnect after spending the day apart. As much as I hate giving in, it doesn’t take much to knock me down, and I’ll lose at least one, sometimes two hours, before dragging myself out of bed to face life again.

I promise, I’m doing my best. I go out with friends. I walk my dogs and make sure I spend time in the sunshine. I take my antidepressants and my daily vitamins. I’ve been vulnerable. I’ve been strong. I’ve tried dating. I’ve asked for what I need. I’ve talked about my feelings. I’ve tried putting my feelings behind me. An occasional glass of wine. CBD oil. Himalayan salt lamp. Hugging my children. Counting my blessings.

How many more naps must I take or states must I cross before I get there?