I just want to TAKE A SHOWER, the voice in my head screams. I want to shower, use the bathroom alone, and fold laundry without someone clinging to me. Wait. No. I DON’T want to fold laundry. When did my days become so monotonous that folding laundry is the measure of my life? Ugh.
That voice. It’s often confrontational. Chaotic. It doesn’t even feel like me. Except, of course, it is. It’s my hidden mom voice, the one that echoes in my mind during my toughest moments. On days when my toddler is being contrary, when the baby is teething, and when deadlines and dinnertime loom over me. In those moments, it feels impossible to escape.
As I walk through the kitchen, my partner glances at me: “Are you crying?” Silence. Finally, I reply, “No.” I’m lying. I have been crying, but I can’t articulate my feelings with the kids watching. So I deny it.
The day continues. I manage to pull myself together—or at least I think I do—but I’m as transparent as a plastic cup. “What’s wrong?” he asks gently. I can’t hold it in any longer. I spill my heart out, even as exhaustion weighs heavily on me.
I don’t recall my exact words, but it was something like this: This is incredibly hard. We used to have this vibrant life. I used to socialize, dress up, and enjoy late-night conversations with friends. I had stories to share. We used to hike together on weekends. I danced in the front row while you performed. Our favorite bar was always bustling with familiar faces. I used to shower daily. Our home was tidy. I had energy. I’m not even sure who I am right now. This house, which we bought with such excitement, feels suffocating. I live here, work here, and parent here. Everything is confined to these walls. Leaving feels like a monumental task. Naptime, breastfeeding, tantrums—why disrupt that just to get out? What’s the point? Am I just going to be the mom in Target, sporting spit-up as a fashion statement and dry shampoo as a nod to the showers I’ve neglected?
My life has shrunk to a point where even a trip to Target feels unjustifiable, and I’m utterly exhausted. This isn’t who I am, this isn’t what I envisioned, and I feel like I’m on the brink of losing my sanity.
As we tackle chores in the yard during the kids’ nap, the soothing sounds of the ocean-themed noise machine waft through the monitor. The rhythm of those waves has become my life’s soundtrack, barely registering in my mind anymore. And yet, I find myself having a complete breakdown in the driveway, sobbing into my partner’s embrace as neighbors pass by. “What do I do?” he asks softly. The tenderness in his voice is both comforting and disheartening. I recognize that he feels just as lost as I do.
Neither of us are accustomed to facing problems that seem insurmountable. I retreat inside, grab my laptop, and start to write. Writing has always provided clarity when I feel hopeless.
That moment occurred months ago, and what I’ve learned since is this: The only way out is through. Motherhood is draining. Raising a baby is challenging. The toddler years are nothing short of perplexing. Let’s not sugarcoat it.
Yet, perhaps there’s beauty in the breakdown. My breakdown stemmed from feelings of powerlessness, isolation, and the overwhelming responsibility of nurturing small humans. Bringing these feelings to light reveals the darker themes of motherhood. And if they are themes, at least that means you are not alone.
In a time when the last thing you need is another challenge, it becomes a call to rise. I wish I could say I turned a corner immediately, but I spent the next hour writing and crying, battling that relentless voice in my head. Then, I stepped out, treating myself to coffee and a book, wandering aimlessly around Barnes & Noble, alone yet liberated.
That day marked a turning point. I couldn’t evade the significant breakdown of my motherhood journey without reflection and change. So, what now? I kept asking myself. Will this be my life, or will I take action? My response was clear: I refuse to wallow in my misery, weaving it around me until it feels like a second skin. There’s always something demanding my attention—both the problem and the solution.
There’s always something to be done. As a mother, a wife, a homeowner, and a self-employed individual, my to-do list will never be complete. But there’s also always something I can do to care for myself.
I had to accept both sides of that reality and learn valuable lessons. Being a mom doesn’t hinge on the number of perfect moments I imagined. I find myself balancing the roles of working mom and stay-at-home mom. Neither is glamorous; both come with guilt, uncertainty, and, yes, a mountain of laundry.
Instead of stressing over the laundry pile, I needed to reconsider the expectations I placed on myself—and where I prioritized my needs on that never-ending list. I can’t wait for others to fulfill my needs; I must vocalize them, claim them, and release the guilt. I need to practice self-compassion.
While it may seem simple, this has required a process of letting go, compromising, and reevaluating. My kids are still young, and I have many more years of this balancing act ahead. If I lose myself now, who will I be when they grow up and leave? I don’t want to find out.
I can’t claim to have it all figured out, nor can I say that motherhood will ever be easy. But when I asked myself, “What will you do now?” I discovered my strength. I regained my sanity, silenced that frantic voice in my head, and embraced the chaos of motherhood.
When I find myself drifting away from this lesson, I return to that pivotal question: What now, Mama? One thing is certain—there’s always something to do.
For more insights on navigating motherhood, check out other posts on home insemination, which provide valuable guidance. You can also explore resources like this one for home insemination kits. For those considering fertility treatments, UCSF’s IVF resource is an excellent guide.
Summary
Allowing myself to break down opened the door to self-reflection and change in my motherhood journey. I discovered the importance of addressing my needs and the futility of striving for perfection. Embracing the chaos of motherhood has led to newfound strength and clarity as I navigate the challenges ahead.