Hitting a wall

I used to think the exhaustion, the overwhelm, and the constant mental load were just part of motherhood.
Always feeling behind, planning the next thing even while playing with my kids, too tired but unable to stop.

After my first son was born during Covid, I was isolated and anxious. I told myself it would get easier, but it didn’t. When my second baby came, everything unraveled. He cried for months, had intolerances, and could only sleep on me. We were in pure survival mode for nearly a year.

I spent years on interrupted sleep, running on fumes, holding everything together: the house, the meals, the kids, my job. My mind never stopped. I couldn’t see it then, but I was deep in burnout.

One ordinary morning, after dropping my boys off at daycare and preparing for work, I came home, unloaded the dishwasher, started the laundry, and completely broke down. I had nothing left to give.

That was the moment I realized this wasn’t motherhood. This was survival.

Rebuilding

After months of feeling drained and empty, I realized something had to change. Not just how I felt, but how I lived.

My doctor meant well, but her advice, “get outside, eat well, move your body,” only worked when life slowed down, which it never really did.
My therapists listened and asked, “How are you feeling?” and “What do you want to talk about?”
But the truth was, talking about it didn’t fix the fact that I still had to juggle two toddlers, a job, and a house that ran on my mental load.

I didn’t need to talk. I needed to act.
I needed structure, change, real tools I could use in the middle of real life.

That’s when I decided to take matters into my own hands.
Because I knew if nothing changed, nothing would get better.
I could rest for a few weeks, but the moment I went back to work, I’d end up right where I was — burned out again.

So I started small.

I looked at my life, every corner of it, and asked,
“What’s actually making this so heavy?”

I identified my biggest pain points in the household and tackled them first.
I simplified meals, organized routines.
I learned to work with habits because habits make things automatic.
They take the pressure off the brain that’s always running lists.

Then I turned toward my family.
I reconnected with my partner.
I created small systems that involved my kids, tiny routines that made life lighter for everyone.

Bit by bit, I rebuilt my days.
Not overnight. Not perfectly. But intentionally.

And slowly, I began to feel the difference —
less noise in my head,
less pressure in my chest,
more presence in my home.

That’s when I realized recovery isn’t about escaping your life.
It’s about rebuilding it so it finally supports you.

Thriving

These days, life still feels full, but it finally feels light.
There’s movement, laughter, a rhythm that makes sense.
The days aren’t perfect, but they’re peaceful.

Both my toddlers pick up their dirty clothes without being asked twice.
When I ask for help, it’s rarely met with whining — they just do it.
Sometimes, my four-year-old takes initiative before I even ask.
We act as a team now, all of us, because this is our home, not just my responsibility.

The mental load isn’t mine to carry alone anymore.
There’s shared effort, shared awareness, and a lot more grace.

My partner told me recently, “It’s good to have you back. I missed you.”
And it stopped me in my tracks because I realized I had missed me too.
I laugh again. I play again. I feel present instead of constantly behind.

When I see crumbs on the floor, I don’t tense up.
I know I’ll get to it when I have the capacity.
I don’t panic over a pile of laundry anymore — it’s just another rhythm in our week.
Because we built systems that actually fit our life.

Evenings end in connection, not exhaustion.
There’s room for rest, joy, and the small moments that make motherhood beautiful again.

It’s not that everything runs perfectly, it’s that I finally do — calm, confident, and capable.

My home feels lighter.
My mind feels clear.
And for the first time in years, I’m not just surviving my days, I’m living them.