It’s that time of year again—when the wheat threshers roar to life and the air turns into a visible haze of dust and particles. Add the Sumbal harvest to the mix, and it becomes a nightmare for anyone with allergic asthma. A dreadful season, truly.

My son suffers from it. And this season… it’s terrible. A month with little to no relief! Every breath he takes worries me. Every cough tightens something in my chest. Follow every precaution??? But there’s only so much we can do when the very air turns against us.

And not just that...

I’ve been meaning to write, to let it all out here, but words just wouldn’t come. My head felt foggy, overwhelmed. So I took to swimming—the only thing that seems to help vent it out these days. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been agitated beyond reason. And it’s not just one thing. It’s everything.

It’s the endless loop at home—my in-laws falling ill one after the other, hospital visits becoming our new routine. My husband’s been wrapped up in it all, taking his mother to another city for special scans, trying to hold things together. They’re aging, I know. And it’s not easy—for them or for us. My mother-in-law especially is set in her ways, reluctant to follow even the smallest health advice. There’s a kind of exhaustion that comes from caring for someone who won’t meet you halfway. It’s not resentment… just fatigue, maybe. Emotional, quiet fatigue.

And then there are things no one sees...

We can’t switch on the air conditioning yet. Not because we don’t need it—my son could use the filtered air, and so could we—but because my in-laws need it more. And we can’t afford to run two ACs at once. So we rely on the air cooler, with careful ventilation and crossed fingers. It’s not as simple as switching it on and forgetting it. Every unit of electricity counts. My husband is doing all he can, but I know the toll it takes on him.

We never say it out loud. We don’t let it show. Well—maybe I do. He makes both ends meet as quietly as he can, holding on to his dignity. Yes, my in-laws could support us financially if we asked—but we won’t. It’s a matter of self-respect. You can’t just hand over your pride and call it help.

Maybe I’m just feeling stretched. The days blur. So many responsibilities, and yet an odd sense of restlessness clings to everything.

Maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe I’m just overwhelmed. It’s this heavy mix of responsibility and restlessness that gnaws at me. So much to do… and yet, I feel bored. It’s not idleness—it’s a longing for something more. A little spark. A little space that doesn’t come with a to-do list.

I don’t want much. Just a little time that doesn’t feel like duty.

And yet, in all this, I remind myself—this too shall pass. Seasons change. Bodies heal. Dust settles. Even when it doesn’t feel like it, we’re moving. Maybe slowly, but forward nonetheless.

But, yes, I found myself watching the clock every day. As soon as the hands struck 5 pm, I’d rush to get ready for the swimming pool, needing that release like air. I throw myself into the water and come up for air, both literally and metaphorically. That short time is mine. The only thing that is...