At forty-seven, I no longer feel the joy of living…
Women truly work not one shift but two shifts every day—first at the office, then at home. We carry everything upon our shoulders, forcing a smile, mustering energy to keep up with children, chores, aging parents, and endless responsibilities. But there comes a point when the exhaustion breaks you. You’re still young by age, not yet a grandmother, yet there’s no strength left inside—just a hollow weariness, as they say, burned out.
Sometimes I wonder: was the pension not designed for this very reason? Only why must it come so late? And how could one even live on it when scraping by on wages is hard enough, yet the longing for rest from this relentless race gnaws at me now…
I’ve read countless articles and comments about women who “blossom” in retirement—picking up languages, travelling, taking up sports, finding new friends, hobbies, even love. But where do they find the energy? I truly don’t understand.
At forty-seven, I have a wonderful family. Two sons. Yet I want nothing more. Truly. I simply don’t want anything. I don’t greet mornings with joy, make no plans, dream no dreams. My only thought upon waking is how to make it to evening. Perhaps it’s the toll of late motherhood. My first was born at thirty-five, the second at thirty-nine. Now one is nine, the other nearly a teenager. And I feel ancient.
Mornings begin in a rush—breakfast, packing school bags, checking homework, then the chaos of work. I’m in sales—endless calls, meetings, presentations, contracts, a whirlwind of interactions. Even when the workday ends, there’s no rest—I’m available round the clock, terrified of missing a valuable client. They might call at seven, nine, even ten at night, and I’ll jump to answer because—what if?
Then comes the household: checking the boys’ schoolwork, tossing laundry in, cooking supper, laying out tomorrow’s clothes, replying to the relentless school chat where ten new messages appear daily—someone forgot something, money must be collected, forms signed, a trip organised. I must keep up with it all. It all falls on me.
I can’t recall the last time I had a proper break. I get two weeks off a year, but they vanish into backlog—sorting paperwork, fixing problems, helping others. I return to work more exhausted than before.
I have a husband, and he tries, truly. He isn’t the type to lounge with the telly remote. He helps—with chores, with the boys. But it doesn’t change the overwhelming burden because I’m still the one who carries it all in my head. Who remembers everything. Whose mind is a never-ending notebook with a hundred tasks for tomorrow.
And beneath it all—anxiety. Fatigue. Never enough money. We’re not poor, but far from wealthy—just an ordinary family. Swiss holidays aren’t even a fantasy. A simple trip to the lakeside feels like a luxury. Everything costs too much. Everything is a struggle.
There’s no time for myself. Then there are my ageing parents, too frail to mind the grandchildren. I help them when I can. Guilt lingers inside. It seems everyone needs me, yet I am gone. And sometimes, my parents seem livelier than I am. I force smiles, pretending it isn’t so hard. But inside—emptiness.
Why am I like this? Other women seem happy—going places, laughing, posting holiday snaps, living with ease. And here I am, burnt out. Unable to rest. Unable to live. Life just passes me by.
You’ll say—relax. Take a break. But when? Even weekends are full of tasks. When does it end? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe others have figured it out. But I… I’m just too tired.
Does this ever happen to you? Or am I the only one?
