Im thirty-eight, and for years I believed I was the problem. That I was a terrible mother, a poor wife. That there was something fundamentally wrong with me becausedespite holding everything togetherdeep down, I felt utterly empty.
Every day, I’d rise before dawn, five oclock sharp. Id pack lunchboxes, lay out school uniforms, and sort breakfast for everyone. Id leave the children ready for school, hastily straighten the house, and rush off to work. At the office, I followed every deadline, delivered on targets, and sat through endless meetings. My smile never slipped. No one at work suspected a thingin fact, they praised me for being reliable, organised, resilient.
At home, the routine continued at full pace. Lunch, chores, bath times, dinner. I listened to the children chat about their days, answered their homework questions, negotiated their little squabbles. I gave hugs when they needed them, mended what broke, filled every role I was supposed to. To outsiders, my life looked tidy. Perhaps even enviable. I had a family, a job, our health. There was no obvious tragedy to explain the ache inside me.
Yet inside, I was hollow.
It wasnt constant sadnessmore like a weariness that no amount of sleep could touch. No matter how exhausted I was each night, Id wake up just as tired. My body ached for no reason. Any noise grated against my nerves. The childrens repeated questions left me feeling hopeless. Dark, shameful thoughts crept in: perhaps my children would be better off without me. That maybe other women were born to be mothers, and I simply wasnt.
Still, I never missed a duty. I was never late. I never quite lost control. I didnt scream more than what one might call normal. So nobody noticed.
Not even my husband. He saw that everything was fine. If I said I was tired, hed reply,
Every mother gets tired.
If I said I had no motivation for anything, hed shrug and say,
Thats just a lack of willpower.
So I simply stopped speaking.
Some nights, Id lock myself in the bathroom, just to escape everyones voices for a while. I didnt cry. Id stare blankly at the wall, counting the minutes until it was time to go out and be the one who can do it all again.
The thought of leaving crept in quietlynot a dramatic urge, but a cold idea: to vanish for a few days, walk away, just stop being needed. Not because I didnt love my children, but because I felt I had nothing more to give.
The day I hit rock bottom was unremarkable. Just a regular Tuesday. One of my children asked me for help with something simple, and I looked at him and couldnt process anything. My mind was empty. I felt a lump in my throat, a flush of heat in my chest. I sat on the kitchen floor, unable to move for minutes.
My son stared at me, frightened, and asked,
Mum, are you alright?
And I couldnt answer him.
No one came to help. No one came to rescue me. That was the day I couldnt pretend to be fine anymore.
I reached out for help when I finally ran out of strength. When coping became impossible. A therapist was the first person to say what Id never once heard:
This doesnt mean youre a bad mother.
And she explained what was happening to me.
I realised no one had helped earlier because Id never stopped functioning. As long as a woman keeps doing it all, the world assumes shell always cope. No one asks after the woman who never seems to fall.
Recovery didnt happen overnight. There was no magic fix. It was slow, uncomfortable, and laced with guilt. Learning to ask for help. Learning to say no. Absorbing the fact that not being available every minute doesnt make you a bad mother.
To this day, I raise my children. I still work. But I dont pretend to be perfect anymore. I dont believe every mistake defines me. And above all elseIve stopped believing that wanting to run away made me a terrible mother.
I was just utterly exhausted.
