I’m 38 and for years I thought I was the problem—convinced I was a bad mum, a bad wife, somehow fundamentally flawed because, no matter how much I held everything together, deep down I felt I had nothing left to give. My daily routine started at 5am: cooking breakfasts, sorting uniforms and packed lunches, getting the kids ready for school, tidying the house, and heading to work where I smiled through meetings, hit targets, stayed organised—no one there ever guessed a thing. At home, I juggled lunch, chores, bath time, dinner, homework questions, sibling squabbles, hugs and mending tears, always present, always in control. From the outside, my life looked normal—even good: family, career, health. There was no obvious tragedy to explain the emptiness I felt. But inside, I was hollow. Not constantly sad, but exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. My body ached, noise grated on my nerves, and I started thinking thoughts I was ashamed to admit: maybe my kids would be better off without me; maybe I just wasn’t cut out for motherhood. I never missed a responsibility, never lost control, so no one—not even my husband—noticed. Whenever I mentioned being tired, I’d hear, ‘Every mum gets tired,’ or, ‘You just need more motivation,’ until I stopped talking about it. Some nights I sat alone in the bathroom, not crying, just staring at the wall, counting the minutes before I had to go back and be the one who copes with everything. The thought of leaving crept in quietly—not a dramatic urge, just a cold idea: disappear for a while, stop being needed. Not because I didn’t love my children, but because I didn’t feel I had anything left to give. The day I finally broke wasn’t spectacular; it was an ordinary Tuesday, when my child asked for a simple favour and I couldn’t respond. I sat on the kitchen floor, unable to move. My son looked at me, frightened: ‘Mum, are you okay?’ And I couldn’t answer. No one came to help or save me. I just couldn’t pretend any longer. Only when my strength ran out did I seek help—from a therapist who finally said what I’d never heard: ‘You’re not a bad mother.’ And explained what was happening to me. I realised no one had noticed because I never stopped functioning; as long as a woman keeps doing everything, the world assumes she can go on. No one asks after the one who never falls. Recovery wasn’t quick or magical, but slow, awkward, guilt-ridden—learning to ask for help, to say no, to accept that rest doesn’t make you a bad mum. I still care for my children and keep my job, but I don’t pretend to be perfect anymore, I no longer let a mistake define me, and I understand now: wanting to run away didn’t mean I was a bad mother—I was simply exhausted.

Im 38, though time in dreams stretches and folds. For years, I believed the fault was minesomehow a bad mother, a poor wife, something innately flawed. Despite juggling it all, I felt an inward vacancy, as though I was pouring from an emptied pitcher.

Every morning was an odd ritual, rising at five as if the sun called me by name. I made toast and kippers, sorted uniforms with unwieldy crests, filled lunchboxes with cheese and pickle sandwiches. The children, Alice and Harriet, bundled for school, Id scatter cushions and straighten books, then slip out into the greyness for work. Day after day, I ticked boxes, met deadlines, sipped tea in meetings and stretched my lips into smiles no one ever questioned. My colleagues called me dependable, efficient, stronga portrait of order and English sensibility.

At home, the routine spun on, like an odd mechanical parade: lunch, chores, bath time, supper. Id listen as the girls recounted strange playground tales or asked endless questions about Henry VIII and the Magna Carta. Id break up their squabbles over crayons or the blue-eyed cat, Mr Whisk. I was the hug-giver, the tear-wiper, the fixer of jammed zippers. Outwardly, things seemed perfectly ordinary, British even. A family, a job, our health. Nothing visible amiss, nothing tragic enough to merit this silent sense of collapse.

But inside, I was hollow.

It wasnt sorrow exactlya strange dream-fatigue drenched me. I slept, but woke no less weary. My limbs ached inexplicably; noise made my skin prickle. The same questions, again and again, felt like a dull thumping in my skull. I caught myself thinking things Id never dared utter aloud: that perhaps the children would be better off without me. That I simply wasnt made for this. That some women were born mothers, and I was not among them.

I never missed a task. Never late. Never lost controlnever more than a typical British flare of temper. So no one noticed my unraveling.

Not even my husband, Geoffreyhe saw only the smooth surface. If I confessed exhaustion, hed say, Every mum gets tired. If I said nothing appealed, Youve just lost your spark. And I ceased speaking.

Sometimes, as evening pooled around the house, Id shut myself in the loo and just sit, staring at the faded tiles, counting seconds until I had to return to being the one who can do it all. No tears, just an endless stretch of silent minutes.

The thought of leaving drifted through like a faint English fog. Not a tempestuous urgejust a cool, creeping idea: disappear for a few days, become unnecessary, just for a while. Not for lack of love, but because I had run dry.

When I struck bottom, it was almost comically mundane. A Tuesday, as if that meant anything in dreams. Alice asked for help tying her shoes, and I just stared back at her, mind as blank as the North Sea. A tangled knot rose in my throat; heat flushed my chest. I slid to the kitchen tiles and simply sat, unmoored, for minutes that rippled and buckled.

Harriet looked at me with wide, frightened eyes and asked, Mum, are you alright? And I found no voice to answer.

No one appeared to pull me up, no knight in tailored tweed. I realised I could no longer pretend.

I sought help when my strength ran out, when Id reached the far side of coping. The therapist was the first to say the unspoken thing: This doesnt make you a bad mum. She gave shape to my invisible weight.

I learned no one had reached out before because Id never quite stopped functioning. As long as a woman keeps the cogs turning, the world assumes she can roll on. Nobody wonders about the one who never stumbles.

Recovery wasnt neatno instant magic, but a slow, awkward, guilt-tinged climb. Learning its alright to ask for help. To say no. To stop being eternally available. To understand that taking a rest doesnt make me a bad mother.

I still raise my girls. I still work under a sky that sometimes droops low and strange. But Ive stopped feigning perfection. I no longer believe a misstep defines me. And most of all, Ive learned my longing to vanish never made me wicked or unloving.

I was simply, utterly, exhausted.