It’s a valid observation. My partner can soothe our baby to sleep far more easily than I can, and our little one knows it all too well. Yet, given how infrequently he’s home these days, that truth is maddening. Reaching out for support is pointless—he’s out of state for the fourth time this month, and the weight of my stress and fatigue is becoming unbearable. At that moment, I cracked, something that’s become easier since welcoming my second child and often facing the chaos alone.
There’s no denying it—I was not just feeling like a failing mother; I was one.
While I generally thrive in solitude, parenting solo feels like an entirely different challenge. As a mother of two, one still in diapers, I find my basic needs—like showering, using the restroom, or dressing—often neglected. It’s a cliché, but I’ve become a pro at wearing yoga pants without much actual exercise and eating meals over the sink. What I resent about this reality, however, isn’t part of that familiar narrative.
Not every day is a complete struggle, but the sensation of being overwhelmed has become familiar. I’ve wrestled to carve out time for writing, an activity that nurtures my spirit and supports my family’s finances alike. I’ve also battled to find the time and energy to exercise, to feel comfortable in my own skin, and to be the engaged and loving mother my children deserve—most days, at least.
This past year has undoubtedly been the most challenging of my life. I say this as someone who has navigated a tumultuous adolescence, grappled with an addictive personality, and made some questionable relationship choices. But nothing compares, in my opinion, to the transformative trials of motherhood.
Perhaps I clung too tightly to the idea that having a second child wouldn’t drastically change my life, but it did—completely. While the arrival of my first child knocked me down hard, I quickly rose, stronger and wiser than I’d ever been. After the whirlwind of my daughter’s unexpected arrival, I felt as though I had it together.
The year had its storms; I lost friends, fought anxiety and PTSD after my daughter was sick but recovered by eight weeks. Yet when she turned one, I was thriving—working a few hours, sleeping well, and enjoying family life. I had, in essence, revamped my existence, and it felt good.
Now, a year into life with my second child, I find my world just as chaotic as when my son was a newborn. I keep waiting for the calm to arrive, even though I know better. I often advise others not to wait for things to slow down—embrace the madness, learn a new normal. But right now, I struggle to embrace it because I’m too busy managing everything to simply be. When I let go, chaos ensues, and I can’t afford to stop, lest a tantrum or meltdown ensue, forcing me to reclaim my patience. I keep moving, often at the expense of my own well-being, while I strive to hold everything together, and sometimes, I’m the one who crumbles.
Being an overwhelmed mother was never my aspiration—who dreams of that? It wasn’t the vision I had when picturing our family of four, gathered on the porch with my partner and I playing guitars while our daughter danced and the baby crawled. In that ideal image, I wasn’t back to my pre-pregnancy weight, but I was healthy, taking care of myself, and my life felt balanced.
In reality, the baby has been crawling for months, while my guitar sits untouched in the corner, missing strings since his arrival. The fantasy didn’t include a spirited five-year-old who occasionally drops the baby instead of gently kissing him. It also didn’t show the endless whining from 4:30 p.m. to bedtime or the nightly wake-ups that occur three times without fail. And to top it off, I might have actually gained weight since giving birth.
Though the idealized vision wasn’t completely a lie, it’s more like fleeting glimpses rather than a constant reality. I don’t necessarily need motherhood to be easy, but I crave the ability to breathe without always feeling like a support system. For better or worse, I am profoundly invested in every aspect of my motherhood journey, which often leaves little room for personal or emotional freedom.
At times, I wish I could escape, even for an hour. I feel a pang of jealousy for my partner, who sleeps soundly in a hotel room, free from tiny bodies wrapped around him. Yet, despite the challenges, I remain incredibly grateful for my children—even on my hardest days. This gratitude sometimes makes the guilt of feeling inadequate even tougher to bear.
I am not a perfect mother by any means. I am flawed, perhaps more than I ever expected. I envisioned myself as strong, but I’m learning to find strength in my vulnerabilities. My greatest lesson in motherhood is to love myself, flaws and all—my anxiety, my fears—and to teach my children how to fail and grow from those experiences.
Even though I often struggle, I vow to be a mother who never gives up. My journey through motherhood may not mirror anyone else’s. It might not always be beautiful, but I embrace every moment of it, and deep down, I hold onto hope. I’m learning to accept that motherhood is diverse and can be both gritty and beautiful simultaneously. For me, it may never resemble bliss, but it will be authentic and uniquely mine, and I believe I will emerge stronger in the end.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the overwhelming journey of motherhood, capturing the struggles and challenges that accompany raising children, especially when parenting alone. The author shares personal experiences of feeling overwhelmed, navigating chaos, and the importance of self-acceptance while embracing the imperfections of motherhood. Ultimately, it conveys a message of resilience and hope, emphasizing that every mother’s journey is unique.