Hey love, let me tell you about a few of us juggling life and finally learning to give ourselves a break.
Natalies alarm went off at half past six, even though she could’ve slept later. She set it more out of fear of falling behind than necessity. While the house was still quiet she tossed a load in the washing machine, packed a container of buckwheat and chicken for her husband, checked that her tenyearold son had signed his English workbook, and skimmed the urgent emails. In the bathroom the mirror steamed up from the shower and she could only see bits of herself forehead, lashes, the line of her mouth thats gotten a lot tighter these past months.
She works as a project manager at a firm where everything is measured in deadlines and risk. The chat pops up with questions every minute and her hand automatically reaches to reply, even when shes stirring a pot. Natalie knows that if she doesnt answer right away someone will think shes slipping and then shell have to prove shes still on the job. Shes always on the job.
Her son wakes up grumpy and exhausted. Her husband, Simon, gets up earlier to head to the construction site and drops the boy at school if Natalie lags. Simon isnt a bad bloke, he just lives in mustdo mode, just like her, and when he collapses onto the sofa in the evening his fatigue looks like a law of nature. Natalie finds herself envying that straightforwardness: tired means you just lie down. Her own tiredness always needs an explanation.
One Monday she realised shed turned fortyone when a birthday reminder popped up on her calendar. Shed set it herself years ago and still forgot. She glanced at the date, at the endless todo list, and dismissed the reminder. On the tube she clung to the handrail, thinking about approving a budget, picking up a delivery, calling her mum because shed get upset if she didnt hear from her. Her coworkers sent quick thanks emojis and she replied automatically.
Across town at the secondary school, Margaret, whos fortyeight, starts her first lesson at eight fifteen. She teaches English literature but lately feels more like a dispatcher. Kids are noisy, parents ping her on WhatsApp, the deputy head sends spreadsheets that need to be filled by evening. Margaret carries notebooks in her bag, grading essays on the bus and in the kitchen while the potatoes boil.
Her universityage daughter lives on her own but calls almost daily, usually ending the chat with requests: transfer money, check train times, help with paperwork. Margaret cant bring herself to say not now. She fears that refusing makes her a bad mum, a bad teacher, a bad person. She carries other peoples expectations like an unbreakable rulebook.
In the teachers lounge theres a plate of biscuits someone brought for tea. Margaret grabs one, then another, and feels irritation risenot at the biscuits but at herself. She hears colleagues brag about weekend trips and who managed to squeeze in a massage, and the word managed feels like a silent accusation. She thinks, if she were more organised she could manage too, instead of spreading herself thin over everyone elses asks.
Meanwhile, Claire, fiftytwo, works as a GP in a busy clinic. By nine a queue is already forming. Her consultation room smells of disinfectant and old paper. Patients come in with coughs, high blood pressure, workrelated medical certificates. Between appointments she fields nurses questions and checks that the computer system isnt frozen.
She rarely checks her own blood pressurenot because she doesnt know the risk, but because shed rather not see the numbers. When your day is filled with other peoples stats, yours feel like an extra burden. At home she cares for her elderly father, whos been living with her since his stroke three years ago. He can get to the kitchen on his own but gets confused with his meds, so Claire prepacks his tablets into weekly boxes, hoping that will bring some order to the chaos.
Then theres Fiona, thirtyseven, a selfemployed nail technician working from a studio flat in a new build. Shes got a mortgage, two windows onto a noisy street, and a schedule that runs from sunrise to midnight because every cancelled client means a dent in the budget. She posts tidy nail photos on Instagram, tags them available slots, and answers messages at two in the morning.
Her boyfriend, Dave, lives with her but acts more like a guest. He helps occasionally picking up parcels or taking out the rubbish but mostly believes Fiona can handle everything herself. Fiona doesnt argue; shes scared a fight will turn into a breakup, and a breakup will just add another problem to her list. She already has enough.
What ties these four women together isnt age or job, its how they cling to life as if letting go of a single thread would make everything collapse, and the constant chorus of contradictory voices around them.
Natalie would hear those voices in the office when colleagues chat about productivity and the right balance. Social media would feed her clips of women jogging, sipping green smoothies, preaching selflove. She would watch that with a tired anger the smile felt like another duty.
Margaret heard the same in a parents WhatsApp group where mums argue about afterschool clubs and tutors, and in neighbourly chats that can both condemn a careerwoman and poke fun at housewives.
Claire heard it in the clinic queue where patients demand attention yet complain that doctors do nothing.
Fiona heard it in comment sections: How do you manage it all? and immediately after, Youre just at home, why even try?.
Natalies first panic hit on a Wednesday on the tube. She was scrolling a bosss message We need to close today or well fall behind when the train jolted hard. Her chest tightened as if someone had squeezed her heart. The air felt thin. She tried to breathe deeper, but each breath was sharp and short.
She thought she might collapse. She was ashamed of the idea, as if falling meant weakness. She got off at the next stop, sat on a bench, pressed her palm to her chest, and the world buzzed with strangers talking on phones, munching pastries. She stared at her knees, counting breaths. She sipped water from her bag and felt a tiny release, not dramatic, just a slow lettinggo. Ten minutes later she flagged a taxi to the office, texted her boss Ill be an hour late, feeling unwell, and watched her shaking fingers on the screen.
He replied Okay, hang in there. That phrase was familiar, but now it sounded more like a command than comfort.
Margarets panic arrived on a Friday night while she was checking notebooks, the soup cooling on the kitchen counter, and her daughter on the phone begging for money for some contribution. She tried to find out what it was for while also remembering the school cleanup the next day. Then a parents message pinged: Why did my son get a C? You must explain. Heat rose inside her. She snapped at her daughter, Wait, I cant right now, and the girl got hurt. She opened the parents angry note and shot back a curt reply she instantly regretted. She stared at the screen, feeling shame cling to her throat, wishing she could rewind and do it differently. She turned off her phone, slipped into the bathroom, shut the door, and leaned against the sink. In the mirror she saw red spots on her neck.
Claires panic was medical. On a Monday after a consultation she felt a pounding headache and nausea. A nurse remarked, Claire, you look pale. She brushed it off, but an hour later the symptoms persisted. She asked to have her blood pressure checked. The numbers were high. She thought about tomorrows packed schedule, about her father whod need food, about patients who would complain if she cancelled. Then her professional voice whispered, I need a sick note. Asking for it felt harder than diagnosing anyone else.
Fionas crisis came as numbness in her fingers one evening while she was finishing a clients set. She smiled, said Just a sec, and rushed to the bathroom, turning the cold tap on her hands. The tingling didnt fade. She finished the job, took the money, saw the client out, then sat on the hallway floor, mind racing: if my hands give out, everything falls apart the mortgage, the supplies, the rent. She Googled numb fingers nail tech and read about carpal tunnel, inflammation, surgery. Panic rose.
Dave came home late with grocery bags, saw Fiona on the floor and asked, Whats wrong? She tried to explain, but words stumbled. He sat, looked at her hands, and said, Take a few days off. He meant it kindly, but Fiona heard a lack of understanding. A few days off meant lost income and angry clients.
None of these moments were catastrophes. No one lost a job overnight, nobody died. But each incident cracked the foundations theyd built, showing that the old way couldnt go on.
That evening Natalie got home later than planned. Simon had already fed their son, a plate of cold pasta sat on the table. Natalie shrugged off her coat, sat down and said, I felt sick on the tube today. Her voice trembled a bit.
Simon looked at her, asked Heart? She shrugged, wanting him to read between the lines. He replied, Go to the doctor tomorrow, Ill take the kid. It wasnt pity, just practicality, and that somehow helped.
The next day she booked a GP appointment through the NHS app. The only slot was next week in the morning. She wanted to cancel because she had a planning meeting, but remembered the tube incident and the fear of collapsing. She texted her boss, I need to leave an hour early for a doctors appointment. He answered within a minute, Alright, let the team know. She reread the message and felt a small tension ease. It wasnt the world getting kinder, just herself allowing a tiny act without excuses.
Margaret the next day marched to the deputy heads office, clutching a printout of the angry parents message. Her palms sweated. The deputy head, a tired but firm woman, listened. Margaret said, I blew up. Im embarrassed. I cant keep answering every message instantly. Can we set a rule for replying by sevenpm?
The deputy head sighed, We cant do everything, but lets try: replies by seven, anything after goes to the next day. Ill post it in the staff chat. Margaret felt relief, then a twinge of guilt, as if shed asked for a favour.
She called her daughter later, I can help, but not always right away. I need rest too. The daughter was silent, then asked, Mum, are you okay? Margaret replied, Just tired. Saying it out loud felt scary because fatigue was something you were supposed to endure in silence.
Claire received her sick note for a week. Leaving the clinic with a prescription bag, she felt eyes on her, as if she were faking. She told her father, The doctor said I need to rest. He grumbled, Rest is for the young. She didnt argue. She called a socialcare service, asked about a parttime carer. They explained the paperwork, the waiting list, the forms. She jotted a list, irritated by the bureaucracy, but she pushed ahead because otherwise her blood pressure would become more than just numbers.
Fiona didnt cancel any clients that week. She shifted two appointments to the evening, one to the next day a mini disaster in her mind. She messaged a few regulars, Need to lighten my schedule for health reasons. One replied, Okay, another, Are you ill? She stared at the message, didnt answer straight away. She booked a private orthopaedic appointment, using holiday savings shed never really had. The doctor talked about wrist strain, breaks, exercises, splints. The word necessity felt like a threat.
At home she told Dave, I need you to pick up some of the chores. I cant carry it all. He was initially annoyed. Youre at home, right? she said, Im working from home. Its work too. He fell silent, then said, Fine, lets split it. No romance, just a straightforward talk where she didnt soften her needs.
By midmonth each of them hit a point of no return.
Natalies came during a planning meeting when her boss suggested another project, saying, Youre handling everything best. Pride prickled, fear rose, and she imagined the tube, the breathlessness. She said, I wont take it. Im at my limit. I can hand over the handover, but I wont lead it. The room fell quiet, a pen clicked. Her boss asked, Are you sure? She nodded. Inside she trembled, but it was a choice, not habit. He replied, Alright, well reallocate. He wasnt angry, just a bit annoyed at the extra work. She realised the world hadnt collapsed, but the fear of being labelled a slacker lingered.
Margarets breaking point was a parent storming into the school after shed replied sharply. He shouted, demanded an apology, threatened a complaint. She said, Im willing to discuss the grade, but I wont be spoken to like that. If you want, we can involve the deputy head and set a time. The parent flared, but the deputy head stepped in, backing her. Margaret left the office with shaky legs but a sense that she finally refused to swallow herself whole.
Claires point arrived on the third day of her sick leave when a colleague begged her to pop into the clinic for an hour to finish a report. She walked to the bus stop, felt her blood pressure spike, and realised she was lying to herself. She called back, I cant, Im still unwell. The colleague sighed, Got it. Claire finally lay down that afternoon, listened to her dad tinkering with a tea spoon, and felt both guilt and relief.
Fionas came when a demanding client demanded an immediate appointment. She could have said yes and worked till dawn, but instead she typed, Im unavailable today, can do Thursday. The client replied, That wont work. Fiona felt her chest tighten but didnt apologise. She put the phone down, made a simple dinner, ate without scrolling. The warm food soothed her a little.
After those moments things shifted, though not magically.
Natalie told Simon later that evening, I turned down the project. He raised an eyebrow, asked So what? She braced for criticism, but he just said, Good. Youre not a robot. It felt like a knot loosening in her throat. She went into their sons room, watched him pack his school bag, and for the first time in ages she wasnt mentally juggling emails.
Margaret switched off notifications after seven. The first few days she still reached for her phone like a toaster, fearing disaster if she didnt. Nothing catastrophic happened. She started leaving the school with just one notebook instead of a stack, leaving the rest in the cupboard something shed once considered a crime. At home she allowed herself to sit on the sofa and stare out the window for ten minutes, doing nothing. It felt odd, but it was a tiny rebellion.
Claire used her week off to gather paperwork for the social service, visited the local council office, submitted the claim. The endless queue, the numbered tickets, the waiting it exhausted her as much as seeing patients. Yet when she finally held the acceptance letter, it was concrete. She bought a new digital blood pressure monitor because the old one kept spitting weird readings. She started logging her numbers each morning and evening, jotting them in a notebook. Dad grumbled, but eventually got used to it. She didnt become a hero of selfcare, just stopped pretending her body didnt exist.
Fiona bought a wrist brace, set a timer on her phone to remind her to stretch. The first few days she broke the rule when clients were late or she wanted extra money. Then the pain in her hand got so bad she could barely hold a drill. She shut bookings for two days, felt the financial sting, but also the relief of pain easing.
Dave began cooking dinner twice a week. He was clumsy oversalted, sometimes forgot the bread but Fiona noticed she wasnt snapping at him as often. She realised her irritation was part of the habit of controlling everything. She learned to tolerate a little imperfection instead of shouldering the whole load.
A month later none of them were living blissfully, but each had a small, steady decision not based on inspiration but on necessity.
In late October Natalie went to the GP for a checkup. The waiting room was stuffy, people scrolling on phones. She clutched her referral for blood tests, feeling the familiar tug to cancel, to later.She sat down, took a deep breath, and finally let herself be just a mother, a wife, and a human, without having to prove anything else.
