“I can’t even look at you like this,” — my husband stormed off to sleep in the spare room until I “sort myself out.”
Our baby’s 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 blender, an ambulance, a pillow for my little one to fall asleep on, and a punching bag for everyone else. Because apparently, in this family, I’m also meant to be a supermodel at the same time.
Before pregnancy, I *did* take care of myself. Not because anyone forced me, but because I loved it. Manicured nails, clean hair, smooth skin, a figure I was proud of—I liked looking good. Even when my bump grew, I still made an effort—watched what I ate, went swimming to keep strong. 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—like I’d been through a war. My body ached 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 *did* lose myself—but not because I wanted to. Because my baby took every bit of my energy, time, and strength. And no one helped.
My husband thinks I’ve “just let myself go.” That I “can’t be bothered” to look nice. I’d love to see *him* last a single day in my shoes. His mum, my mother-in-law, even compares me to her: *“When I was your age, I managed everything with a newborn! Still looked lovely, still kept my husband happy.”* But she “managed” because she had help—grandmas, sisters, neighbours. Me? I’ve got no one. My mum lives in Manchester. Mother-in-law drops by for a *quick cuppa* once a week, coos at the baby for five minutes, then swans off like she’s done some grand charity. And my husband? He’s “exhausted” from work. That’s it.
The other day, he said he was “disgusted” looking at me in my stained pyjamas with greasy hair tied up in a messy bun. That I could at least *try* to freshen up at home—a bit of mascara, lip balm, nothing major. Apparently, it’s *so hard* for him to live with a woman who doesn’t take care of herself.
That cut deep. No—I’m not being dramatic. It *did.* Like he’d ripped my heart out and smeared it across the floor. I’m not a machine. I’m hurt. I’m exhausted. I want sleep. I want a shower. I want *five bloody minutes* of silence. But no one sees that. What they *do* see? *“She’s not wearing makeup.”* Oh, the horror.
He marched off to the spare bed. Made a point of it. Like he was saying, *“Come back when you’re human again.”* Until then? I’m just a shadow.
My mum put it bluntly: *“He doesn’t love you. Full stop. Leave.”* I don’t know if I can. I still love him. Despite everything. I don’t want to break our family apart. Don’t want my baby growing up without a dad. But more and more, I wonder—maybe she’s right. If he *really* loved me, he wouldn’t just look. He’d *see.* Not judge, but help. Not walk away, but hold me. And maybe then, I’d feel like a woman again.
What do I do? No idea. Right now, I just keep going. One day after another. Sleepless nights to dawn cries. The baby’s screams to my husband’s icy stare. And in those rare, quiet moments when the baby finally sleeps, I sit in the dark and remember who I was. Pretty. Smiling. Light. Confident.
And I wonder—will she ever come back?
