“I can’t bear to look at you like this,” my husband said before stomping off to sleep in the spare room—apparently, I wasn’t “presentable” enough for his taste.
Our baby is three months old. Three months of feeling like I’ve lost not just myself but the woman I used to be. I’m not just a mum—I’m a washing machine, a food processor, an emergency service, a human pillow, and a punchbag for everyone else’s frustration. Because in this house, it seems I’m also expected to look like I’ve just stepped out of a magazine shoot.
Before the baby, I took care of myself. Not because anyone told me to, but because I liked it. Manicured nails, fresh hair, smooth skin, a figure I was proud of—I made an effort. Even when my bump grew, I still watched what I ate, swam to stay active, kept things in check. I wasn’t lazy. I was a woman who loved herself.
Then childbirth happened. Or, more accurately, it felt like I’d been through a military operation. My body ached like I’d been run over by a bulldozer. Stitches, sleepless nights, endless crying, feeding, colic, the constant fear I was somehow doing it all wrong. I lost myself, yes—but not because I wanted to. The baby took every last 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 dear mother-in-law, even has the nerve to compare me to herself: “At your age, I managed everything with a baby and still looked lovely! My husband was happy.” Of course, she “managed”—because she had an army of helpers: grandmas, sisters, neighbours. Me? I’ve got no one. My mum lives in Manchester. My mother-in-law pops round for a five-minute tea once a week, glances at the baby like she’s performed some grand act of charity, then vanishes. And my husband? He’s “exhausted” from work. That’s it.
The other day, he told me he felt “disgusted” looking at me in my stained pyjamas and messy bun. That I should at least “freshen up” at home—a face mask, a bit of mascara, some lip gloss. Not *that* hard, apparently. Poor him, living with a woman who doesn’t “take care of herself.”
That cut deep. 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’d *love* to sleep. I’d *kill* for a shower. I’d sell my soul for thirty minutes of silence. But no one sees that. All they see? “She didn’t put on makeup.” Horror of horrors.
So he left. Made a show of sleeping in the other room, as if to say, “Come back when you’re human again.” Until then, I’m just a worn-out ghost.
My mum put it bluntly: “He doesn’t love you. Full stop. Leave him.” But I can’t. I still love him. Despite everything. I don’t want to break up our family. I don’t want our child growing up without a father. But more and more, I wonder—maybe she’s right. If he really loved me, he’d *see* me, not just look. He’d help instead of complain. He’d hold me, not turn away. And maybe, just maybe, I’d start feeling like a woman again.
What do I do? I don’t know. For now, I just keep going. Day after day. From sleepless nights to dawn tantrums. From the baby’s cries to my husband’s accusing glare. And in those rare, quiet moments when the little one finally sleeps, I sit alone in the dark and try to remember the woman I used to be. Pretty. Smiling. Light. Confident.
And I ask—will she ever come back?
