I’m 38 and for years I thought I was the problem — that I was a bad mother, a bad wife, and that something was wrong with me, because even though I kept everything running at home and at work, inside I felt empty and had nothing left to give. I woke up every day at 5:00am, packed school lunches, ironed uniforms, got the kids ready, tidied the house, and went to work, sticking to schedules and always smiling, so no one noticed the exhaustion and invisible pain. At home, I cooked, helped with homework, mediated squabbles, and made sure everything looked fine on the outside, while inside I was desperate and afraid I was failing everyone, thinking perhaps my children would be better off without me. Even my partner didn’t notice, brushing off my fatigue—so I stopped talking. Nights alone in the bathroom became my refuge. And when the day came when I finally couldn’t function—I sat on the kitchen floor unable to move—nobody came to help. It wasn’t until therapy that someone finally told me: this doesn’t mean you’re a bad mum. Asking for help was slow, awkward, and guilt-ridden, but it saved me. Now, I still raise my children and work, but I’ve stopped pretending to be perfect, and I know I was never a bad mother—I was just utterly exhausted.

I’m 38 now, and for the longest time, I thought the problem was me. I believed I was a terrible father, a bad husband. I thought there was something broken in me, because even though I managed to keep everything running, deep down I felt as though I had nothing left to give.

Every morning, I woke at 5:00 a.m. sharp, making breakfast, ironing the childrens uniforms, and packing lunchboxes. I left the kids ready for school, gave the house a quick tidy, and hurried off to work. I stuck to my schedules, hit my targets, sat through meetings, and I smiled. Always smiling. No one at the office suspected anything. Quite the opposite, reallypeople said I was responsible, organised, strong.

Everything at home ticked along as well. School runs, chores, baths, dinner on the table. I listened to the children talk about their day, helped with homework questions, broke up their small squabbles. I gave hugs when they needed them, fixed what was necessary. From the outside, my life looked perfectly ordinary. Good, even. I had a family, a job, we had our health. There was no obvious tragedy that could explain what I felt.

But inside, I was hollow.

It wasnt a constant sadness. It was exhaustion. The sort of tiredness that sleep simply doesnt touch. Id go to bed utterly spent, only to wake up just as weary. My body ached for no reason. Noise would grate on my nerves. The endless questions wore me down. I started having thoughts I was ashamed to admiteven to myself: that perhaps my children would be better off without me, that maybe I wasnt cut out for this, that there are men born to be fathers, and I wasnt one of them.

I never skipped a single duty. I was never late. I never let anything slip. Never raised my voice more than necessary. Thats why no one noticed.

Even my wife never saw it. She only saw that everything was fine. When I said I was exhausted, shed reply,
Every father gets tired.
If I said I didnt feel like doing anything, shed say,
Thats just a lack of motivation.
So I stopped talking.

There were evenings when Id sit on the edge of the bath, door locked, just so I didnt have to hear anyone for a bit. I didnt cry. I just stared at the wall, counting down the minutes before Id have to go back out and be ‘the one who could do it all’ again.

The thought of running away crept in quietly. It wasnt some dramatic urge. It was a cold idea: to just vanish for a few days, to get away, to stop being needed. Not because I didnt love my kids, but because I felt I had nothing left to give them.

The day I hit rock bottom was nothing remarkable. Just another Tuesday. One of my children asked for help with something quite simple, and I just looked at them, not understanding. My mind was blank. I could feel a lump in my throat and a rush of heat in my chest. I sat down on the kitchen floor and simply couldnt get back up for a few minutes.

My son looked at me, frightened, and said,
Dad, are you alright?

And I couldnt answer him.

No one came to help me then. No one arrived to rescue me. I simply could no longer pretend I was alright.

I reached out for help when I was spent, when I had nothing left to give. When I couldnt handle everything anymore. The therapist was the first person to ever say something Id never heard before:

This is not because youre a bad father.

He gave me a name for what I was feeling.

I realised no one had helped me sooner because I never stopped functioning. As long as a man keeps doing everything, the world assumes he can keep on going. No one bothers to ask how the one who never falls is really doing.

It wasnt a quick fix. There was no magic solution. Recovery was slow, awkward, and accompanied by plenty of guilt. Learning to ask for help. Learning to say no. To not always be available. To understand that taking time to rest doesnt make you a bad father.

To this day, I still raise my children. I still work. But I no longer pretend to be perfect. I dont think one mistake defines me anymore. And most of allI dont believe that wanting to escape ever made me a bad father.

I was simply exhausted. And now, I know that its okay to ask for help.