Mom Burnout: When You’re Running on Empty and No One Knows

You’re still doing all the things.

Packing lunches.
Driving.
Replying to messages.
Cooking.
Cleaning.
Showing up.

From the outside, it probably looks fine.

Busy.
Normal.
Capable.

But inside, something feels… thin.

Like you’re running on fumes.
Like you’re going through the motions.
Like you’re present in body, but not always in spirit.

If you’re living with mom burnout, this might feel uncomfortably familiar.

You’re still here.

You’re just tired in a way no one sees.

I remember noticing it one afternoon while folding laundry.

Nothing was wrong.

The house was quiet.
The kids were occupied.
The day was moving along.

And I felt… nothing.

Not peaceful.
Not happy.
Not upset.

Just blank.

I kept folding.
Kept stacking.
Kept moving.

And somewhere in the middle of it, I thought:

Is this what it’s like now?

Burnout doesn’t always look like collapse.

It doesn’t always come with tears or dramatic breaking points.

Sometimes it looks like:

Smiling automatically.
Nodding along.
Doing what needs to be done.
Scrolling when you’re tired.
Zoning out when you’re overwhelmed.

It looks like functioning without feeling.

Like surviving on autopilot.

The hard part is that you don’t feel “allowed” to be burned out.

Because you’re still managing.

You’re still showing up.
Still caring.
Still handling things.

So it feels wrong to say you’re struggling.

Other people have it worse.
Other people are dealing with more.
Other people seem to cope.

So you tell yourself:

I’m fine.
I’m just tired.
I’ll get through this.

And you keep going.

But quiet burnout isn’t about one bad week.

It’s about years of giving without fully refilling.

It’s about:

Putting yourself last.
Again.
And again.
And again.

Not because you don’t matter.

Because everyone else feels more urgent.

Over time, something starts to erode.

Your patience gets shorter.
Your joy feels farther away.
Your spark dims a little.

You still love your family.

Deeply.

That’s not the question.

The question is why you feel so far away from yourself.

Sometimes I think burnout is a kind of grief.

Grief for the version of you who had energy.
Who laughed more easily.
Who felt curious.
Who had space in her head and heart.

You didn’t lose her in one moment.

You lost her slowly.

Between meals and appointments and worries and responsibilities.

Between being needed and being dependable and being “the strong one.”

What makes this even lonelier is that no one really notices.

Because you’re still functioning.

So they assume you’re okay.

And you don’t correct them.

Because you’re not sure how.

I went more personally and more honestly into this in a letter called “My Life Looked Fine — So Why Did I Feel So Bad?”

It’s about that strange guilt of struggling when nothing looks “wrong” — when your life seems okay on paper, but inside you feel worn down and unsettled.

If this reflection feels close to home, that letter meets this feeling from the inside.

I wish I had a simple fix for this.

A weekend away.
A new routine.
A better planner.
More “me time.”

But burnout doesn’t come from a lack of tips.

It comes from a lack of space.

Space to rest.
Space to feel.
Space to not be needed for a minute.
Space to remember who you are outside of caretaking.

And that kind of space is hard to come by.

Especially for mothers.

So I’m not going to tell you to change everything.

I’m not going to tell you to be more positive.
Or more grateful.
Or more disciplined.

I just want you to know this:

If you feel empty sometimes,
if you feel detached,
if you feel like you’re fading a little—

you’re not cold.
You’re not selfish.
You’re not failing.

You’re tired.

In a deep, honest way.

And it deserves to be named.

Maybe today you still do the things.
Still show up.
Still carry the load.

But maybe you also notice yourself.

Maybe you check in.
Maybe you stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not.
Maybe you let yourself want more than survival.

You’re allowed to want yourself back.

You’re allowed to miss her.

And you’re allowed to believe she isn’t gone forever.

She’s just waiting for you to have room to breathe again.

And let that be enough for today.