Soft and Strong: Notes from a Tired Mother

It’s a strange kind of torture—this pain that wraps itself around my body like a second skin. Some days, it pulses like a silent scream through my bones, a dull, relentless throb that never lets me forget. Other days, it spikes like lightning, jagged and violent, sending tears down my cheeks while I try to smile for my kids.

But the pain… the pain isn’t even the worst part.

It’s the guilt.

That creeping, crushing guilt that settles in my chest like concrete every time I hear the sound of my children needing something I can’t give. Every time I see D juggling three kids, a messy house, dinner on the stove—while I lay curled up in bed, too broken to move, too tired to try. I watch the love of my life carry weight I was supposed to help hold, and it kills me.

And my mom... oh, the way she steps in without question, without pause—her strength only adds to the ache. I know she loves me. I know she doesn’t resent it. But I do. I resent me.

Because I hate that my body became the reason I disappear. I hate that my absence echoes louder than my presence on some days. I hate that I have to say “not right now, baby,” when everything in me wants to jump up and be there—fully, loudly, lovingly present.

The guilt gnaws at me. It whispers that I’m not enough. That I’m a burden. That the people I love most are losing pieces of themselves just trying to hold me together.

And no matter how many times they reassure me—no matter how kind their eyes, or soft their voices—the guilt doesn’t loosen its grip.

Because deep down, I feel like I’m failing the people I love simply by surviving.

And some days, that hurts more than the pain ever could.