I just want to TAKE A SHOWER, the inner voice screams. I just want to shower, use the bathroom in peace, and fold laundry without someone clinging to my leg. Wait. No. I DON’T want to fold laundry. When did my life become so monotonous that folding laundry became my measuring stick? UGH.
That voice. It’s loud and unruly. It doesn’t even feel like me. Except it is, of course. It’s my hidden mom voice, the one that echoes in my mind during my toughest moments—those days when my toddler is being particularly obstinate, the baby is teething, and deadlines are looming like storm clouds.
And once I get into that mental space, it’s nearly impossible to find my way out.
I stroll through the kitchen, and my partner, Jake, does a double take: “Are you crying?”
Silence. I finally muster a response: “No.” I’m lying. I’ve been crying, but I can’t find the words to explain it, and the kids are watching me. So I say nothing.
The day drags on. I think I’ve composed myself, but I feel as transparent as a glass of water.
“What’s bothering you?” Jake asks gently.
I can’t keep it bottled up anymore. I spill out my feelings, even though fatigue has drained me.
I don’t recall my exact words, but it was something like this:
“This is so tough. We used to live this vibrant life. I’d go out, socialize, and dress up for evenings with friends. I had stories to tell! We hiked mountains on weekends. I danced in the front row while you played in your band. Our lives were filled with friends and laughter. I used to shower every day. The house was tidy. I had energy.
Right now, I’m not sure who I am. This house that once felt like a dream has become my entire existence. I work here, I parent here—everything happens within these walls. Getting out feels impossible. There’s naptime, tantrums, and breastfeeding; why bother leaving? What’s the point of being the mom in Target, sporting spit-up like a badge, dry shampoo as a nod to those missed showers, and chipped nail polish as a reminder of my former self?
My world has shrunk to the point where even a trip to the store feels unjustifiable, and I’m so over it. This isn’t me, this isn’t what I expected, and I’ll go mad if this continues.
We’re outside tackling chores while the kids nap. The soothing sounds of the ocean from my son’s noise machine waft from the monitor. That steady rhythm has become the background music to my life. I barely register it anymore. But there I am, having a full-blown meltdown in the driveway, sobbing into Jake’s arms as neighbors pass by.
“What can I do?” he asks softly.
His gentle tone comforts me yet amplifies my despair. Better because I know I’m not alone in this; worse because it’s clear he feels just as lost as I do.
Neither of us is accustomed to me facing problems that seem insurmountable.
I retreat inside, grab my laptop, and start to write. Writing has always been my go-to when I feel like there’s no solution.
That was months ago, and here’s what I’ve realized: The only way out is through.
Motherhood is exhausting. Raising a baby is tough. The toddler years are confusing. Let’s not sugarcoat it.
But perhaps there’s a silver lining in the breakdown.
At its core, my breakdown highlighted the powerlessness I felt. The isolation, the loss of identity, the overwhelming responsibility of caring for little humans. Bring those feelings into the light, and you see they are common threads of motherhood.
If it’s a shared experience, it means you’re not alone. At a time when you least need another challenge, it’s a nudge to rise up.
I wish I could say I had an epiphany then, but really, I spent the next hour writing, crying, and battling that crazy mom voice. Then I stepped out for a coffee and a book, wandering aimlessly around Barnes & Noble—aimless but alone.
That day marked a shift for me. I realized I couldn’t escape the depths of my breakdown without some serious introspection and change.
So what now? I asked myself repeatedly. Is this how my life is going to be, or am I going to take action?
My answer was undeniable: I refuse to wallow in misery, letting it wrap around me like a suffocating second skin. There’s always something to do—that was both the issue and the antidote.
The responsibilities I’ve taken on as a mother, wife, homeowner, and self-employed woman will never truly be completed. There’s always a to-do list waiting.
But there’s always something I can do to help myself too.
I needed to embrace both sides of that realization and learn some vital lessons. Being a mom doesn’t equate to a collection of perfect moments. I walk the fine line between being a working mom and a stay-at-home mom. Neither is glamorous, and both come with guilt, uncertainty, a sprinkle of fear, and a mountain of laundry.
Instead of stressing over the laundry pile, I had to reassess the expectations I’d piled onto myself.
Where did my own needs fit into that endless to-do list? I can’t wait for someone else to fulfill my needs. I have to advocate for myself without guilt. I need to show myself some kindness.
It sounds so straightforward, yet it’s been a journey of letting go, compromising, and reassessing. My kids are young, and I have years ahead of this balancing act—and if I lose myself now, who will I be when they grow up and leave? That’s a question I don’t want to face.
I can’t claim to have all the answers. I can’t say that motherhood will ever be easy. But when I asked myself, “What’s next?” I discovered my strength. I regained my sanity. I sent that mad mommy voice packing and stopped fighting so hard against the swirling chaos of motherhood.
Whenever I start to lose sight of this lesson, I return to that fundamental question: What’s the next step, Mama? One thing’s certain—there’s always something to do.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, Mia Thompson shares her experience of feeling overwhelmed by the challenges of motherhood. From a breakdown in the driveway to discovering the importance of self-advocacy, she emphasizes the need for self-care amidst the chaos. Ultimately, the article encourages mothers to embrace their struggles while recognizing they are not alone in their experiences.