If I’m being real, I’m struggling with motherhood right now.
When the day begins, I’ve already been awake for hours, lying in bed while the baby nurses, hoping to delay the inevitable start of the day. I feel exhausted. Honestly, a part of me wishes I could just stay there forever.
Then the routine kicks in. I pour cereal and make coffee, all while trying to keep the baby’s hands out of the bowl. I savor the quiet moments as I chat and coo, but I know the fussiness is coming. After a quick trip to the bathroom, playing peekaboo with a towel to avoid a meltdown, we both squeeze into the shower because otherwise, she’ll scream like she’s in distress. The doubts flood my mind: Am I doing this wrong? Should I let her cry more? Or is it too much?
Once we’re out and I’m drying my hair—something I despise doing because I hate how I look without it—I start to reflect on what that says about me. Am I being vain? As I rush through drying, glancing at my body and wishing things were different, I can’t shake the feeling that I want to be more like I used to be.
Once I nurse her into her first nap, I find myself scrolling through articles or trying to catch a few minutes of sleep, though we all know that never works. As soon as I think I might rest, she’s awake again. We play, and it’s so easy to bring a smile to her face. I cherish those moments, even as I tackle chores left by my older child and partner, feeling resentment bubble up despite knowing I’m incredibly fortunate.
It’s time to pick up my eldest from school, and I’m excited to hear her stories. She’s so clever and funny. But then the begging starts—she wants screen time. I can’t shake the guilt that washes over me; I know I let her watch too much. The baby needs a nap, so the iPad becomes our solution.
When my older child wants my attention, I do my best to engage with her even as I feel stretched thin. She pulls at me, both physically and emotionally, and I can’t help but wish for a moment of solitude, if I’m being honest.
When my partner finally comes home, our communication has become mostly text messages, like we’re living in two different worlds. I want to be everything he needs, but I often feel lost. He offers me a break, but sometimes I just can’t take it. I attempt to squeeze in a quick workout, trying to reclaim some sense of myself, yet I feel like I’m constantly trying to take up less space, equating that with being more deserving of connection. My partner’s patience wears thin with the baby, and while I want to support him, I also want him to understand my struggles.
After dinner and bath time, putting the baby down becomes a challenge. She clings to me, and I wonder if I’m fostering too much dependence. Should I let her cry more? The questions swirl in my mind, leading me to conclude that as a mother, a wife, and a person, I often feel like I’m too much of everything yet not enough of what truly matters.
My partner texts me again, hoping I’ll join him. A part of me wants to be present, to nurture our relationship, but more often than not, I don’t. Sometimes, it feels like he’s just another demand on my time, a reminder of how much needs to be done. I chastise myself for these thoughts. I’m lucky to have what I have; so many go through so much more with so much less. I feel ungrateful, and that thought stings.
At some point, the baby unlatches just enough for me to steal a few moments of sleep before she needs me again. The night continues in cycles of latch and unlatch, and before I know it, the day starts anew. I know this phase will pass, but honestly, it feels endless. If I’m truthful, I don’t feel particularly lucky or grateful—and that’s a tough realization to face.
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Conclusion
In summary, motherhood can be a profoundly challenging experience, filled with moments of joy overshadowed by exhaustion and self-doubt. It’s a journey where feelings of gratitude and guilt often coexist, and the quest for balance can feel overwhelming.
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