Im thirty-eight, and for the longest time I thought the fault must be mine. That I was a bad mother, a useless wife. That I was somehow faulty, because even though I got everything done, deep inside I felt completely empty.
Each day, I woke before the sun, at five oclock sharp. I made breakfast, ironed uniforms, packed lunches. I left the children neat and ready for school, tidied up the house in a quick swirl, and hurried off to work. I kept to schedules, delivered results, sat through meetings. I smiled. Always smiling. No one at work ever guessed a thing. Quite the oppositethey praised my dependability, my tidiness, my strength.
At home, life also ticked away. Lunch, chores, bath times, dinner. Id listen to the childrens stories, answered their endless questions about teachers and numbers, settled their small quarrels. I hugged when they needed arms, fixed what was broken. From the outside, life looked orderly. Good, even. I had family, a job, our health. There wasnt a single disaster to justify the feeling inside me.
But within, I was hollow.
It wasnt a constant sorrow. It was weariness, not the sort a nights sleep could cure. I went to bed exhausted and woke up just as worn. My bones ached for no reason. Every sound grated on my nerves. The repetitive questions made me want to scream. Shameful thoughts crept into my headmaybe my children would be better off without me, maybe I was simply never meant to be a mother, maybe other women were built for this and I was not.
I never missed a duty. Never arrived late. Never lost my grasp on things. Never shouted more than was normal. So no one noticed.
And my husband didnt notice either. He saw only that everything was fine. If I said I was tired, hed say:
Every mother gets tired.
If I said I didnt want to do anything, hed reply:
Thats just a lack of motivation.
And so I stopped saying anything at all.
Some evenings, Id sit behind a locked bathroom door, not to cry, but just to escape the noise. Id stare at the tiles and count the minutes until it was time to emerge and be the woman who can do everything again.
The idea of leaving came quietly. Never a storm, just a cold notion: disappear for a few days, slip away, stop being needed. Not because I didnt love my children, but because I felt I simply had nothing left to give.
The day I truly hit the bottom was nothing dramatic. Just a plain old Tuesday. One of my children asked for help with something utterly simple, and I just stared, not even understanding. My mind was a blank hole. I felt a lump rise in my throat, heat flush my chest. I slid down to sit on the kitchen floor and found I couldnt move for some minutes.
My son gazed at me, frightened, and asked,
Mum, are you all right?
But I couldnt answer him.
No one came to rescue me then. No one swooped in to save the day. I simply could no longer pretend that I was fine.
I only asked for help when there wasnt a speck of strength left. When I was no longer able to manage everything. My therapist was the first person to finally say what nobody else ever had:
This isn’t because youre a bad mother.
And she told me what was wrong with me.
I understood then. No one helped before because I never stopped functioningwhile a woman keeps doing it all, the world simply assumes shes perfectly capable. No one thinks to ask about the one who never falters.
Recovery wasnt swift. It wasnt magical. It was slow, awkward, and laced with guilt. Learning to ask for help. To say no. To not always be available. To realise that resting does not make you a bad mother.
Even now, I go on raising my children. I go to work. But I no longer pretend to be perfect. I no longer believe every mistake defines me. Most of allI no longer believe that wanting to run away made me a bad mother.
I was simply worn out.
