Im thirty-eight, and for years I truly believed I was the problem. That I was a bad mother, a bad wife. That there was something fundamentally wrong with me, because even though I kept everything running, deep down, it felt as if I had nothing left to give.
Every morning, I was up at five. Id make breakfast, lay out school uniforms, pack lunchboxes. Id leave the children ready for school, give the house a quick tidy, then dash off to work. I kept to every schedule, met every expectation, sat through meetings. And I always smiled. I always looked happy. No one at work suspected a thingin fact, they praised me. So organised, so reliable, so strong, theyd say.
Everything at home ticked along, too. Lunch, chores, bathtime, supper. Id listen as the children recounted their day, answer questions about homework, settle their squabbles. I hugged them when they needed it, mended things when they broke. Outwardly, my life looked entirely ordinaryeven good. I had a family, a job, my health. There was no dramatic disaster that could justify the way I felt.
But inside, I was hollow.
It wasnt a constant sadness. It was an exhaustiontiredness that sleep never eased. Id collapse into bed shattered, yet wake up just as weary. My body ached for no good reason. Noise grated on me. The endless questions filled me with despair. I started thinking things I was ashamed to admit: perhaps my children would be better off without me, perhaps other women were made to be mothersand I simply wasnt.
But I never missed an obligation. Not once. I was never late, never lost control, never shouted more than acceptable. Thats why no one noticed.
My husband didnt notice either. To him everything was fine. If I said I was tired, hed say, Every mum gets tired. If I said I had no energy, hed reply, You just need to cheer up. So, I stopped talking.
Some nights Id sit alone in the bathroom, door closed, just to hear nothing for a while. I didnt cry; Id just stare at the tiles and count the minutes until I had to go back out and play the woman who can do everything.
The thought of leaving crept up so quietly. It wasnt a dramatic urge. It was cold and matter-of-facta wish to simply disappear for a few days, to stop being needed by anyone. Not because I didnt love my children, but because I had nothing left to give.
The day I finally broke wasnt spectacular. It was just an ordinary Tuesday. One of my children asked me to help with something easy, and I just stared at them, not understanding what they wanted. My mind was blank. I felt a lump in my throat and heat rush through my chest. I slid down onto the kitchen floor, unable to get up for several minutes.
My son looked at me, his eyes wide with worry. Mum, are you alright?
And I honestly had no answer for him.
No one came to help then; no one came to rescue me. I simply couldnt pretend to be okay anymore.
I sought help only when every last bit of fight had gone. When I truly couldnt manage everything anymore. The therapist I found was the first person ever to say, Youre not a bad mother. And finally, someone told me what was really going on.
I realised nobody had helped before because Id never dropped the act. As long as a woman manages to hold everything up, the world assumes she can keep going. Nobody checks on the one who never falls.
It wasnt a quick recovery. There was no magic solution. It was slow, awkward, laced with guiltlearning to ask for help, to say no, to not always be available, to understand that needing rest doesnt make me a failure of a mother.
Today I still raise my children. I still go to work. But I dont pretend Im perfect anymore. I dont let a single mistake define me. And most importantlyIve learned that wanting to run away never meant I was a bad mother.
I was simply exhausted.
