“I can’t stand looking at you like this,” my husband said before walking 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 used to be. I’m not just a mother—I’m a washing machine, a food processor, an ambulance, a pillow for my child to sleep on, and a punching bag for everyone else. Because in this family, apparently, I’m also meant to be a supermodel on top of it all.
Before pregnancy, I took care of myself. Not because anyone forced me, but because I enjoyed it. Manicured nails, clean hair, smooth skin, a slender figure—I was proud of how I looked. Even when my bump grew, I still made an effort, watched what I ate, swam to stay toned. I wasn’t lazy. I was a woman who loved herself.
But after childbirth, everything changed. It was less like giving birth and more like surviving a war. My body ached as if it had been run over by a tank. Stitches, sleepless nights, endless crying, feeding, colic, the constant fear I was doing it wrong. Yes, I lost myself—but not because I wanted to. Because my baby took 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 mother, my mother-in-law, even compares me to herself: “At your age, I managed everything with a newborn! And I still looked lovely—my husband was happy.” Of course, she “managed” because she always had help—grandmas, sisters, neighbours. I have no one. My own mum lives miles away. My mother-in-law pops in for tea once a week, glances at the baby, then leaves like she’s done her good deed. And my husband? He’s “exhausted” from work. That’s it.
The other day, he told me he was “disgusted” seeing me in my stained pyjamas with greasy hair tied up. That I should at least put on a bit of mascara or lip balm—it’s not hard, apparently. It’s tough for him, he says, living with a woman who doesn’t take care of herself.
Those words cut deep. 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 want to sleep. I want a shower. I want just half an hour of quiet. But no one sees that. All they see is: she didn’t put on makeup. Right. How dreadful.
He left to sleep in another room. A deliberate statement: “Come back when you’re human again.” Until then, I’m just a worn-out shadow.
My mother was blunt: “This isn’t love. Full stop. 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. That if he truly loved me, he’d see me—not just look. He’d help—not criticise. He’d hold me—not turn away. And maybe, just maybe, I’d feel like a woman again.
I don’t know what to do. For now, I just survive. Day after day. From sleepless nights to the morning cries. From my baby’s wails to my husband’s accusing stare. And in those rare moments when my child finally sleeps, I sit in the dark and remember the woman I used to be. Beautiful. Smiling. Carefree. Confident.
And I ask myself—will she ever come back?
Sometimes, the hardest part of love isn’t holding on—it’s realising when you’re the only one doing it.
