I’m 46, and from the outside, anyone looking at my life would say everything is just fine. I got married young—at 24—to a hardworking, reliable man. Had two children in quick succession—at 26 and 28. I left university because schedules didn’t match, the kids were small, and “there would be time later.” There were never any big arguments or drama. Everything went the way it “should.” For years, my daily routine stayed the same. I’d get up before everyone, make breakfast, leave the house tidy, then head to work. I came home on time, finished chores, cooked, washed, tidied up. Weekends were for family gatherings, birthday parties, obligations. I was always there, always responsible. If something needed doing, I sorted it out. If someone needed something, I provided it. I never asked myself if I wanted anything different. My husband was never a bad man. We had dinner, watched TV, went to bed. He wasn’t particularly affectionate, nor was he cold. He didn’t want much, but didn’t complain either. Our conversations revolved around bills, kids, and chores. Then, on an ordinary Tuesday, I sat in the living room in silence and realised I had nothing to do—not because everything was fine, but because at that moment, no one needed me. I looked around and understood that, for years, I’d held this home together, yet now had no idea what to do with myself in it. That day, I opened a drawer of old papers and found unused diplomas, unfinished courses, notebook ideas, projects left “for later.” I looked through photos from when I was young—before I was a wife, before I was a mum, before I became the fixer of everything. I didn’t feel nostalgic. I felt something worse: the sense that I’d achieved everything without asking myself if it’s what I wanted. I began to notice things I always accepted as normal. No one asked how I was. Even when I came home exhausted, I was the one to solve things. If my husband didn’t want to go to a family gathering, that was fine, but if I didn’t want to go, it was still expected that I would. My opinion existed, but didn’t hold much weight. There were no rows or drama, but there was also no space for me. One night at dinner, I mentioned wanting to resume my studies or try something different. My husband looked puzzled and said, “Why now?” It wasn’t said unkindly. He just couldn’t understand why something that had always worked needed to change. The children said nothing. Nobody argued. No one forbade me. Yet I saw that my role was so clearly set that stepping outside it was uncomfortable. I’m still married. I haven’t left, packed my bags, or made drastic decisions. But I’m no longer fooling myself. I know now that for over twenty years, I’ve lived to keep a structure going where I was needed, but never the main character. How do you rebuild yourself after something like that?

Im 46 years old, and from the outside, youd think theres nothing amiss in my life. I married young at 24 to a reliable, hardworking man named Thomas. I had two children close together, Emma at 26 and Charlotte at 28. I left university before finishing my degree because the schedules clashed, the children were small, and everyone told me, Theres always time later on. We never had any grand arguments or serious dramas. Everything ticked along as it should do.

For years, my routine barely changed. Id wake before anyone else, make breakfast, tidy the house, and head to work. Id make sure to get back in time to tackle the chores, cook, wash, and keep everything in order. Weekends were filled with family gatherings, childrens birthday parties, and obligations. I was always there. If something needed resolving, I sorted it. If anyone needed help, I was the one to call. I never stopped to ask myself if I wanted anything different.

Thomas has never been a bad man. Wed eat dinner, watch a bit of telly, and head to bed. Hes not particularly affectionate but never cold either. He didnt ask for much, and never complained. Our conversations revolved around bills, the children, and what jobs needed doing.

One ordinary Tuesday, I sat in the lounge in silence and realised I didnt have anything to do. Not because everything was perfect, but because at that particular moment, nobody needed me. I looked around the sitting room, suddenly aware that for years Id kept our household together, and yet now, I had no idea what to do with myself within these walls.

That day I pulled open a drawer, looking for something, and found old certificates, unfinished courses, notebooks with half-written plans, projects Id put off for later. I leafed through old photos of myself before I was a wife, before I became a mother, before I turned into the go-to person for smoothing things over. I didnt even feel nostalgic. It was worse. I suddenly understood Id achieved all these things without ever asking myself whether it was what I wanted.

I started noticing things Id always brushed off. No one ever asks if Im alright. Even if I come home exhausted, Im still expected to sort everything. If Thomas says he doesnt fancy coming to a family event, thats accepted but if I say the same, its assumed Ill still go. My opinion is heard but never carries much weight. No shouting or drama, but no space for me either.

One evening, over dinner, I suggested I might resume my studies or look for something new to challenge myself. Thomas looked surprised and said, But why now? He didnt mean it unkindly. He just genuinely didnt understand why youd change something thats always worked. The girls were silent. No one argued. No one forbade me anything. But even so, I realised my role in our family was so fixed that trying to step outside it made everyone uncomfortable.

Im still married. I havent packed a suitcase or stormed out. I havent made any huge decisions. But Im no longer pretending to myself. I can see now that for over twenty years, Ive lived to hold up a structure where I was necessary, but never the main character.

How does one recover from that? I suppose the first lesson is recognising, at last, that your life deserves to matter to you, not just everyone else.