*Diary Entry*
“I can’t stand looking at you like this,” my husband said before walking off to sleep in the spare room—until I “sort myself out.”
Our baby is three months old. Three months of feeling like I’ve lost not just myself, but *who I was before*. I’m not just a mother—I’m a washing machine, a food processor, an ambulance, the pillow my child falls asleep on, and a punchbag for everyone else. Because in this family, it seems, I’m also expected to be a supermodel while I’m at it.
Before the pregnancy, I *did* take care of myself. Not because anyone forced me, but because I liked it. Manicured nails, clean hair, smooth skin, a slender figure—I took pride in my appearance. Even when my bump grew, I still stayed active, ate well, swam to keep in shape. I wasn’t lazy. I was a woman who loved herself.
But after childbirth, everything changed. Like I hadn’t given birth but survived a warzone. My body ached as if a tank had rolled over it. Stitches, sleepless nights, endless crying, feeding, colic, the constant fear I was doing it wrong. I lost myself—not because I wanted to, but because this tiny human devoured every drop of my energy, time, and strength. And no one helped.
My husband thinks I’ve “let myself go.” That I “can’t be bothered” to look nice. I’d love to see *him* last a single day in my shoes. His mother, my mother-in-law, even compares me to *her*: “At your age, I managed everything—*and* I still looked lovely!” Except *she* managed because she had help—grandmothers, sisters, neighbours. I have no one. My mum’s in another city. My mother-in-law “visits” for five minutes a week, glances at the baby, and leaves like she’s done me some grand favour. And my husband? He’s “too tired” from work. That’s it.
The other day, he told me he was “disgusted” seeing me in my stained pyjamas, my hair a greasy mess. That I should at least “freshen up a bit” at home—a face mask, mascara, lip gloss. “It’s not hard,” he said. Apparently, *he* suffers, living with a woman who doesn’t care about herself.
Those words were knives. No—I’m not exaggerating. It felt like he’d ripped out my heart and smeared it across the floor. I’m not a robot. I’m hurt. I’m exhausted. I *want* to sleep. I *want* a shower. I *want* just half an hour of silence. But no one sees that. All they see? “She didn’t put on makeup.” *God forbid.*
He left to sleep in the other room. A spectacle. Like he was saying, “Come back when you’re human again.” Until then, I’m just a shadow.
My mum was blunt: “He doesn’t love you. Full stop. Divorce him.” But I can’t. I still love him. *Despite everything.* I don’t want to break our family apart. I don’t want my child growing up without a father. But more and more, I wonder if she’s right. If he *really* loved me, he’d *see*, not just look. He’d *help*, not criticise. He’d *hold* me, not turn away. Maybe then, I’d feel like a woman again.
I don’t know what to do. For now, I just survive. Day after day. Sleepless night to morning cries. Baby’s screams to my husband’s accusing stare. And in those rare, quiet moments when the baby sleeps, I sit in the dark and remember *her*—the woman I was. Beautiful. Smiling. Light. *Sure.*
And I wonder—will she ever come back?
*Lesson learned: Love shouldn’t demand perfection. It should offer grace.*
