It was a valid observation. My partner can soothe the baby to sleep much more efficiently than I can, and my little one is fully aware of this. Yet, the infrequency of his help these days only adds to my frustration. Reaching out for support or sympathy is futile; he’s been away for work for the fourth time this month, and the weight of my stress and exhaustion has become unbearable. In that moment, I broke down—a reality I’ve faced more often since the arrival of my second child, leaving me alone a lot.
There’s no denying it—that night, I was a less-than-stellar mother. I didn’t merely feel inadequate; I was.
Typically, I thrive on solitude, but parenting solo is a different kind of challenge. As a mother of two, with one still in diapers, my day offers little room for basic self-care like showering, using the restroom, or getting dressed. It’s a cliché, but I’ve mastered the art of wearing workout clothes without working out and eating meals over the sink. However, the resentment I feel about this isn’t part of the usual narrative.
While not every day feels utterly defeating, the sensation of being overwhelmed has become all too familiar. I struggle to carve out time for writing, which nourishes my soul and contributes to my family’s financial well-being. I also grapple with finding the energy to exercise, maintain self-confidence, and be the engaged, loving mother my children deserve—at least most of the time.
This past year has undeniably been the most demanding of my life, surpassing even the hurdles of a tumultuous adolescence and previous poor relationship choices. Yet nothing compares to the profound challenges of motherhood.
Perhaps I clung too tightly to the notion that having a second child wouldn’t be as life-altering as it has been, but it has been just that. While my first child’s arrival was a significant shock, I quickly adapted and emerged stronger. After my daughter’s unexpected and intense entry into the world, I found myself thriving by her first birthday.
That year was a whirlwind—I lost friendships, faced anxiety and PTSD after my daughter fell ill, and eventually celebrated her recovery. By the time she turned one, I had regained my health, managed a few hours of work each day, and was enjoying my family life. I had reshaped my world for the better.
A year into having my second child, however, my life feels just as chaotic as it did when my son was an infant. I’m still waiting for things to settle down, despite knowing I shouldn’t. I’ve always advised others not to wait for calm; instead, they should adapt to a new normal, embrace the chaos, and let go.
Currently, I struggle to embrace this chaos as I’m too busy managing everything to just be. I find it hard to release control, as doing so often leads to chaos. If I pause for a moment, a tantrum or meltdown is inevitable, requiring me to muster my patience and return to a state of calm. Thus, I keep moving out of necessity to hold everything together, even at the expense of my own well-being.
Being an overwhelmed mother was never a goal of mine—who aspires to that? It wasn’t part of my vision. When I imagined having a second child, I envisioned our family of four enjoying peaceful moments on the porch, strumming guitars while my daughter danced and the baby crawled. I pictured myself healthy, albeit not necessarily back to my pre-pregnancy weight, but taking care of myself and feeling balanced.
In reality, the baby has been crawling for months now, while my guitar gathers dust in the corner, its strings long silent since his birth. The idyllic scenes I envisioned didn’t include a spirited five-year-old who drops the baby rather than gently kissing him. The picture didn’t account for the witching hour, where the baby cries from 4:30 p.m. until bedtime, waking up multiple times at night. It also didn’t represent the possibility that I might have actually gained weight since giving birth.
The image I had wasn’t entirely fabricated; it exists, albeit in fleeting moments rather than a constant reality. I don’t expect motherhood to be easy, but I do yearn for moments to breathe freely without the pressure of being someone’s pillar. Regardless, I am deeply invested in my motherhood journey, which often leaves little room for personal and emotional freedom.
At times, I wish I could step back from it all. I find myself envious of my partner sleeping soundly in a hotel room, far from the tiny bodies that often crowd my space. Nonetheless, I remain profoundly grateful for my children, even on my toughest days, which sometimes makes the guilt of not measuring up even more challenging to bear.
I am not a flawless mother by any means. My imperfections are more pronounced than I ever imagined. I had envisioned being strong, but I’m learning to find strength within my flaws. My most significant lesson in motherhood is to love myself, imperfections and all, and to teach my children how to cope with failure and embrace growth.
Despite my ongoing struggles, I will always be a mother who perseveres. My experience of motherhood may not mirror anyone else’s; it might not always be beautiful. Still, I claim every moment, and in my heart, I remain hopeful. I’m learning that motherhood can look different for everyone, and I have always recognized its grit and beauty, sometimes in the same breath. While parenthood may never be blissful for me, it will be authentic, it will be my own, and ultimately, I will emerge stronger from it.
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Summary:
The journey of motherhood can be overwhelming, especially when faced with the challenges of raising multiple children while managing personal well-being. This narrative explores the realities of feeling inadequate and the struggle for self-care amidst the chaos of parenting. It reflects the importance of embracing imperfections, acknowledging the difficulties, and finding strength within oneself, while also celebrating the joys of motherhood.