Shopping list in hand: cheese, bread, wine.

Mental list: call mom, reschedule dentist, double-check Emma’s dietary restrictions, remember Marcus’s dessert, marinate chicken.

Her hands move—cart, shelf, produce, bag. The chilled air of the produce section slips up her sleeves; the cart’s wheel squeaks, turning left when she means right. But her mind juggles dozens more tasks, each one small and urgent. The handles of the grocery bag press into her palm, a physical echo of the invisible weight she carries.

She forgets the arugula, remembers it, circles back. Wonders if Emma still likes greens. The clock on the wall says 3:40; dinner is hours away, but her mind is already racing through preparation, seating, conversation.

At the register, she catches herself holding her breath. She names it—cognitive load fatigue, not failure. The simple act of acknowledgment loosens something inside her.

As she steps into the parking lot, she feels, for a moment, the relief of having set one weight down.

There will always be more, but now she knows: noticing the load creates the space to carry it differently.