“I can’t stand looking at you like this,” my husband said before storming off to sleep in the spare room until I “sort myself out.”
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 ambulance, a pillow for my little one to sleep on, and a punching bag for everyone else. Because in this family, apparently, I’m also supposed to be a supermodel on top of it all.
Before pregnancy, I actually took 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 bump grew, I still made an effort—ate well, went swimming, kept myself moving. I wasn’t lazy. I was a woman who loved herself.
But after giving birth, everything changed. Like I hadn’t just had a baby, but survived a warzone. My body hurt like I’d been run over by a lorry. Stitches, sleepless nights, endless crying, feeding, colic, the constant fear I was doing it all wrong. I lost myself—not by choice, but because my child devoured every ounce 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 single day in my shoes. His mum, my mother-in-law, even compares me to her: “At your age, I managed everything with a baby—and still looked lovely. My husband was happy.” Except she had help—grandmas, sisters, neighbours. I’ve got no one. My mum lives miles away. My mother-in-law pops round for “a quick cuppa” once a week, glances at the baby, then leaves like she’s done some heroic deed. And my husband? He’s “exhausted” from work. That’s it.
The other day, he told me he was “disgusted” seeing me in a stained nightie with greasy hair piled in a messy bun. That I should at least “freshen up” a bit—maybe a face mask, mascara, lip gloss. “It’s not hard,” he said. Poor him, stuck with a woman who doesn’t care anymore.
That cut deep. No—I’m not exaggerating. It felt like he’d ripped my heart out and stomped on it. I’m not a robot. I’m hurt. I’m exhausted. I want to sleep. I want a shower. I want just half an hour of quiet. But no one sees that. All they see? No makeup. Right. Disgraceful.
He marched off to sleep in the other room. Like he was saying, “Come back when you’re human again.” Until then, I’m just a tired shadow.
My mum put it bluntly: “He doesn’t love you. Full stop. Leave him.” I can’t. I still love him. Despite everything. No matter what. I don’t want to break up our family. I don’t want my child growing up without a dad. But more and more, I wonder if she’s right. That if he truly loved me, he wouldn’t just look—he’d see. He wouldn’t blame—he’d help. He wouldn’t turn away—he’d hold me. And maybe, just maybe, I’d feel like a woman again.
I don’t know what to do. For now, I just live. Day after day. From sleepless nights to morning cries. From a screaming baby to my husband’s judging stare. And in the rare quiet moments, when our little one finally drifts off, I sit alone in the dark and remember her—the woman I was. Beautiful. Smiling. Light. Sure of herself.
And I ask—will she ever come back?
