I am seventy years old, and only now do I realise that I spent a lifetime caring for everyone else before ever learning to care for myself. I married young, and from my first pregnancy, my world began revolving entirely around my family. I never took a job outside our homenot because I didnt want to, but because there was simply no option. Someone needed to be around. My husband left early, came home late. The house was mine to run. The children were mine to raise. The exhaustion was mine too.
I remember countless sleepless nights. One child burning with fever, the next being sick, another one crying out. And there I wasalone through it all. Nobody ever asked if I was alright. Yet, each morning I would get up, make breakfast, and get on with it, never once saying I cant. I never asked for help. I honestly believed thats what a good mother was supposed to do.
When the children grew up, I found myself yearning to learnto take a short course, perhaps. My husband said, Whats the point? Your jobs done. And I believed him. I stayed quietly in the background, always supporting, always catching what fell apart. When one child failed a year at university, I was the one who calmed my husband down. When another became pregnant young, I took her to the doctors and looked after her baby while she sorted herself out. Whenever something went wrong, I was there to pick the pieces up.
Then the grandchildren arrived, and the house once again bustled with energy. Rucksacks, toys, crying and laughter filled the rooms. For years, I became a nursery, a canteen, a nurse. I never expected anything in return, and never complained. Even when I was utterly exhausted, theyd tell me, Mum, youre the only one who knows how to take care of them properly. That kept me going.
Then my husband fell ill, and I nursed him right to the end. After he passed, the excuses started: Mum, I cant come this week, or Well pop in next week, or Ill ring you later. Now sometimes weeks go by without seeing anyone. Im not exaggeratingweeks. There have been birthdays when Ive received nothing but a quick message on WhatsApp. Sometimes I find myself setting two plates for dinner out of habit, only to realise, as the meal finishes cooking, that theres no one else to call.
Once, I slipped in the bathroom. It wasnt serious, but it frightened me. I sat on the floor and waited for someone to pick up the phone. No one did. I got myself up in the end. I didnt tell anyone, not wanting to trouble them. Ive learnt to keep things to myself.
My children tell me they love me, and I dont doubt it. Still, love without presence hurts too. They speak to me in haste, always in a rush. If I start telling a story, its always, Come on, Mum, well talk later. But that later never comes.
The hardest part isnt the loneliness. Its the feeling that I went from being needed to being surplus. I was the foundation of everything, and now Im just an awkward obligation pencilled into their diaries. No one is unkind; Im simply no longer essential.
What advice would you give me? But as I sit here and reflect, I suppose Ive realised something: for all those years I gave everything to others, I forgot that I, too, am worth attention, care, and timemy own included. Perhaps, even now, its not too late to begin looking after myself and finding joy within my own company, knowing my worth doesnt depend on being indispensable to others.
