This morning, I felt an overwhelming urge to bury myself under the blankets and wallow in self-pity. The tears threatened to spill at any moment. But then the alarm jolted me awake, and I had no choice but to face the day. The kids needed breakfast, and school awaited. So, I took a deep breath, tossed the covers aside, and set my feet on the floor—determined, albeit without any semblance of grace. My body protested, and anxiety coursed through me like an electric shock. “Shake it off,” I reminded myself. “Just breathe.”
I gently woke the girls with a playful tickle of their feet and lifted my little ones from their cribs, inhaling that delightful baby scent. I wrapped my arms around my 3-year-old, showering him with kisses. In those moments, I felt like a decent parent; I didn’t let them see my struggles. Still, the tears lingered, and I confess, I let them flow. During the boys’ nap, I slipped away to my bedroom and cried.
My heart ached for my sick parents. My father’s Alzheimer’s was worsening, and my mother, who longs to play with her grandkids, is physically unable to do so. As I look at them, I still see the strong figures who raised me, concealing their pain while dedicating their lives to my sister and me. Yet time is merciless, stealing precious moments. My heart fractures daily under the weight of this reality. Today, my depression may have seeped in, but I kept it hidden. I think I managed well.
I wept because I felt like I was somehow failing my children. The guilt of motherhood—oh, that relentless guilt—consumes me. Are they happy? I know they are. So, why do I feel this way? I often find myself deluding myself in these matters, putting immense pressure on my shoulders. But I still cried.
I cried because I felt like a failure, a shadow of my former self. I’ve sacrificed so many dreams and pieces of myself that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be me. What will my kids think of me? Just “Mom”? That’s it? The thought of the day when they no longer need me weighs heavily on my mind. What will I do then?
I hesitated to share these feelings, fearing it might come across as resentment or ingratitude towards my children. But I wouldn’t change a thing! If given the chance, I would choose this path time and time again.
My ADD often spirals my thoughts into chaos. On any given day, my mind feels like a balloon ready to burst. I recognize that the challenges of motherhood can be overwhelming, compounded by external sadness that I cannot control. Yet, none of that should burden my kids; they should only know love.
And oh, the love I feel for them is sometimes painful. I can’t fathom how I love them so deeply. These little beings are extraordinary. Don’t get me wrong; there are days when endless bickering makes me want to scream, “Go to bed!” or “Stop talking!” But then, in the quiet of the night, I watch them sleep, breathe, and marvel at their peacefulness. “I’m sorry I yelled,” I whisper, wondering if they’ll be sad tomorrow because I let my frustration get the best of me. But no—they’ll wake up with smiles, loving me despite my imperfections and moments of chaos. They adore me, even when my mind feels like mush. Their innocence fuels my determination. I want to shield them from the harsher realities of life, ensuring their happiness also means I must find joy.
I often feel torn between the past and present, needing to be everything for everyone, yet feeling like I have so little to give. But I am grateful for their trust in me. My tears run bittersweet down my cheeks.
So today was a day well spent. Yes, I cried. But through the tears, I breathed. Through the anxiety, I breathed. With every hug, every exclamation of “I love you” or “Leave me alone!” I breathed. And you know what? It’s perfectly okay if all I accomplished today was breathe.
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In summary, the struggles of motherhood can weigh heavily, but even amidst the tears, the simple act of breathing can be a testament to resilience. Finding joy in our children’s happiness, despite our imperfections, keeps us grounded.