“I can’t bear to look at you like this,”—my husband said before stomping off to sleep in the guest room until I “pull myself together.”
Our baby is three months old. For three months, I’ve felt like I’ve lost not just myself, but the person I used to be. I’m not just a mother—I’m a washing machine, a food processor, an ambulance, a pillow for my baby to sleep on, and a punching bag for everyone else. Because in this family, apparently, I’m also expected to be a supermodel—while doing it all.
Before pregnancy, I *did* take care of myself. Not because anyone forced me, but because I enjoyed it. Manicured nails, clean hair, smooth skin, a toned figure—I was proud of how I looked. Even when my belly grew, I kept active—watched what I ate, swam to stay fit. I wasn’t lazy. I was a woman who loved herself.
But after childbirth, everything changed. It wasn’t like giving birth—it was like surviving a war. My body ached as if a lorry had rolled over it. Stitches, sleepless nights, endless crying, feeding, colic, the terror of doing something wrong. I lost myself, yes—but not because I wanted to. Because my baby took every 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 presentable. I’d love to see *him* last a day in my shoes. His mother, my mother-in-law, goes further—she compares me to her younger self. “At your age, I managed everything—baby, beauty, and a happy husband!” Except *she* had help—grannies, sisters, neighbours. I have no one. My mum lives in Birmingham. My mother-in-law drops by “for tea” once a week, peeks at the baby, then leaves as if she’s performed a miracle. And my husband? He’s “exhausted” from work. That’s it.
The other day, he said he’s “disgusted” seeing me in a stained nightgown with greasy hair piled in a bun. That I should at least “freshen up my face” at home. A face mask, mascara, lip gloss—”it’s not hard.” Apparently, it’s tough for *him* to live with a woman who doesn’t care about herself.
It felt like knives. No—I’m not exaggerating. That’s exactly what it was. Like he’d ripped out my heart and smeared it across the floor. I’m not a robot. It hurts. I want sleep. I want a shower. I want silence, even for half an hour. But no one sees that. All they see? *No makeup*. Oh, the horror.
He left to sleep in another room. A performance. As if saying, *When you’re human again, I’ll come back.* Until then, you’re just a tired ghost.
My mum said it bluntly: “There’s no love here. Full stop. Divorce him.” I can’t. I still love him. Despite everything. I don’t want to break our family. I don’t want my child growing up without a father. But more and more, I wonder—maybe she’s right. If he truly loved me, he’d *see* me, not just look. He’d help, not scold. He’d hold me, not turn away. And then—maybe—I’d feel like a woman again.
I don’t know what to do. For now, I just live. Day by day. From sleepless nights to morning cries. From the baby’s wails to my husband’s accusing glare. And in the rarest moments, when my little one finally sleeps, I sit in the dark and remember who I was. Beautiful. Smiling. Light. Confident.
And I ask—will she ever come back?
