**Diary Entry – 12th May**
*”I can’t stand looking at you like this.”* With those words, my husband stormed off to sleep in the guest 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 was before. I’m not just a mother—I’m a washing machine, a food processor, an emergency medic, a human pillow, and a punching doll for everyone else. Because in this house, apparently, I’m also supposed to be a supermodel on top of it all.
Before the baby, I took care of myself. Not because anyone forced me—I enjoyed it. Manicured nails, clean hair, smooth skin, a toned figure—I was proud of how I looked. Even when I was heavily pregnant, I stayed active, ate well, swam to keep my strength up. I wasn’t lazy. I was a woman who loved herself.
But after childbirth, everything changed. It wasn’t just giving birth—it was surviving a war zone. My body ached like it had 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, yes—but not by choice. My baby drained every drop of energy, time, and strength I had. And no one lifted a finger.
My husband says I’ve *”let myself go.”* That I *”don’t bother”* to look decent anymore. I’d like to see him last a single day in my shoes. His mother, my mother-in-law, goes one further—*”I managed everything at your age! Looked lovely, kept my husband happy.”* Of course, she had help—grandmothers, sisters, neighbours. Me? I’ve got no one. My mum lives in Manchester. Mother-in-law pops in for five minutes a week, coos at the baby like she’s performed some grand act of charity—then leaves. And my husband? He’s *”exhausted”* from work. That’s it.
The other day, he told me he found it *”disgusting”* to look at me in my stained pyjamas and messy bun. That I should at least *”freshen up”* at home—a face mask, a bit of mascara, lip gloss. *”It’s not hard.”* Poor him, living with a woman who doesn’t *”care”* about herself anymore.
Those words were knives. No—I’m not exaggerating. It felt like he’d ripped out my heart and smeared it across the floor. I’m not a robot. I’m hurt. I’m exhausted. I’d love to sleep. I’d love a shower. I’d kill for half an hour of silence. But does anyone notice? No. All they see is *”she hasn’t put on makeup.”* God forbid.
He left to sleep in another room. A statement. As if saying, *”Come back when you’re human again.”* Until then, I’m just a shadow.
My mother was blunt: *”There’s no love here. That’s it. Leave him.”* I can’t. I still love him. Despite everything. I don’t want to break up our family. I don’t want my child growing up without a father. But more and more, I wonder if she’s right. If he truly loved me, he’d *see* me—not just look. He’d help—not criticise. He’d hold me—not turn away. Maybe then, I’d feel like a woman again.
What do I do? I don’t know. For now, I just survive. Day after day. Sleepless night to screaming dawn. Baby’s cries to my husband’s accusing glare. And in those rare moments when the baby finally sleeps, I sit in the dark and remember *her*—the woman I was. Pretty. Smiling. Light. Confident.
And I ask—will she ever come back?
**Lesson:** Love shouldn’t demand perfection—it should offer shelter in the storm. If it doesn’t, is it love at all?
