This morning, I really wanted to pull the covers over my head and wallow in self-pity. I felt that familiar urge to cry; it was just waiting to break free.
Then the alarm buzzed. I debated ignoring it, but I couldn’t. The kids had school, and the little ones needed breakfast. So, I took a deep breath, tossed the covers aside, and hit the floor with a mix of determination and zero elegance. My body felt like it had been hit by a truck. Stress and anxiety surged through me like a jolt of electricity. Shake it off, I reminded myself. Just breathe.
I woke the girls with a gentle tickle on their feet, scooped my little ones from their cribs, and inhaled that irresistible baby scent. I wrapped my 3-year-old in a tight hug, planting kisses all over his cheeks. I think I did a decent job as a mom today. I didn’t let them see my pain, even though I was still on the verge of tears. In fact, I snuck away during nap time and let the tears flow.
I cried because my parents are unwell, and there’s nothing I can do about it. My dad’s Alzheimer’s is worsening, and my mom can barely walk. She yearns to pick up her grandkids and play, but her body won’t cooperate. I look at them and still see the strong figures who raised me, who masked their struggles. But time is a ruthless thief; it snatches moments away, leaving my heart shattered daily. Some days, depression creeps in, but I try to mask it well.
I cried because I felt like I was somehow disappointing my kids. That wretched mother’s guilt eats me alive. Are they happy? I know they are, so why do I feel like this? I’m often my own worst critic. But I still let the tears fall.
I felt like a failure, like I’d sacrificed my dreams and lost who I am. What will my kids think of me? Just “Mom”? That’s nothing remarkable. And the thought of a day when they won’t need me anymore terrifies me.
I cried because I feared that sharing these feelings might make it seem like I’m ungrateful for my children. But I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. If I could go back, I’d choose this path again, over and over.
My ADD often sends my thoughts spiraling, making it hard to find peace. My mind feels like a balloon ready to pop. I recognize that parenting is a monumental task, especially with the added sadness from things I can’t control. But that’s not their burden to carry; they deserve to feel nothing but love.
Yet, that love can sometimes feel overwhelming. I love them so fiercely, and it’s hard to understand how. These little humans are incredible. Don’t get me wrong; I have those days filled with chaos—when no one listens and I find myself yelling “Go to bed!” or “Stop talking!” repeatedly. But later, when the house is quiet, I sneak into their rooms to watch them sleep. They look so peaceful, and I whisper, “I’m sorry I yelled.” Will they be sad tomorrow because of my frustrations?
Nope. They’ll wake up, smile at me, and love me. Despite my flaws and moments of chaos, I’m still their mom. They adore me, even when my brain feels like it’s turned to mush. That innocence fuels me. I want to shield them from the world’s ugliness and ensure their happiness, which means I need to find my own joy. It’s a balancing act—stuck in the middle of old responsibilities and young needs, feeling like I can never give enough of myself. But I’m grateful to be needed, to be wanted. My tears, bittersweet, remind me of this.
So today was a pretty good day. Yes, I cried, but through those tears, I breathed. Through the anxiety, I breathed. With every hug, every “I love you” or “Leave me alone!” I breathed.
And you know what? It’s perfectly fine if all I accomplished today was to breathe.