The Mental Load of Motherhood: Why You’re So Tired All the Time

You’re brushing your teeth, and you’re already tired.

Not because it’s early.

Because in your head, you’ve already:

remembered the permission slip,
planned dinner,
noticed the empty milk,
worried about that email,
rescheduled tomorrow.

All before breakfast.

If this feels familiar, you’re carrying a lot of mental load.

Even if no one sees it.

Most of the work you do as a mother doesn’t look like work.

It looks like:

remembering,
anticipating,
noticing,
planning,
adjusting.

Over and over.

You’re the one who knows when the shoes are too small.
When the snacks are running low.
When the form is due.
When the appointment needs to be made.
When someone is about to melt down.

You’re running the system.

Quietly.

I used to think I was tired because I was doing too much.

The laundry.
The meals.
The errands.
The driving.

But that wasn’t it.

What exhausted me was everything happening in my head while I was doing those things.

The constant mental tabs open.
The background calculations.
The invisible checklists.

I could sit down for five minutes and still feel like I was “on.”

Because I was.

There’s a strange loneliness to this kind of tired.

You can be surrounded by people and still feel like you’re carrying everything alone.

Because you are.

Not physically.

Mentally.

You’re the keeper of the details.
The holder of the plan.
The one who remembers what everyone else forgets.

And when you get frustrated, it’s easy to feel guilty.

Why am I so irritated?
Why am I snapping?
Why does this feel so heavy?

Other people seem fine.

So you assume the problem must be you.

But the mental load of motherhood is real.

It’s not “just thinking.”

It’s responsibility.

It’s being the default manager of life.

You’re not just doing the work.
You’re making sure the work happens.

There’s a difference.

And it matters.

One afternoon, I remember standing in the kitchen, staring at the fridge, feeling completely drained.

I hadn’t done anything particularly hard that day.

No marathon cleaning session.
No big outing.
No crisis.

Just… everything.

All the small decisions.
All the small reminders.
All the small adjustments.

It hit me then:
I wasn’t tired from effort.

I was tired from holding.

Holding schedules.
Holding expectations.
Holding emotional weather.
Holding plans B, C, and D.
Holding everyone’s “don’t forget.”

All the time.

What makes this harder is that it’s mostly invisible.

No one thanks you for remembering.
No one notices the disaster that didn’t happen.
No one applauds the smooth-running day.

It just looks… normal.

So your work disappears into “how things are.”

And you quietly disappear into it too.

If this part about carrying everything quietly hit you, I went much deeper — and more personally — in a letter called “Decision Fatigue Isn’t Laziness.” It’s about what it feels like to be the one who’s always thinking five steps ahead, even when you’re exhausted.

If this reflection feels close to home, that letter might meet you in it.

I don’t have a perfect solution for this.

No color-coded planner.
No magical division of labor.
No “just delegate more.”

Real life is messier than that.

I just know this:

If you feel worn down in ways you can’t explain,
if you’re tired even when you “haven’t done much,”
if your brain never really rests —

it’s not because you’re dramatic.

It’s because you’ve been carrying more than most people realize.

Maybe today you still do the things.
Make the lists.
Hold the plans.

But maybe you also let yourself name it.

This is work.
This is effort.
This is weight.

And you’re allowed to feel it.

You don’t have to minimize it.
You don’t have to joke it away.
You don’t have to earn rest by collapsing.

You’re allowed to want mental quiet.
You’re allowed to want someone else to hold the map sometimes.

You’re allowed to be tired of being the one who remembers everything.

And still be a good mother.

And let that be enough.

When You Don’t Know Who You Are Anymore (As a Mother)

There are days when I look at my life and think,

How did I get here?

Not in a dramatic, midlife-crisis way.
More like… quietly confused.

Like I woke up one day and realized I’ve been running on routines and responsibilities for so long that I’m not entirely sure who I am underneath them anymore.

I know what everyone else needs.

I know who needs a ride.
Who needs lunch.
Who needs encouragement.
Who needs reminding.
Who needs a permission slip signed.

I know what time everyone has to be where.

I know how to keep things moving.

What I don’t always know is:

What do I want?

What lights me up anymore?
What am I even working toward?
What would I do if no one needed anything from me for a minute?

Sometimes I’ll catch myself typing something like:

“What should I do with my life?”

into Google at midnight.

And then immediately feel ridiculous.

Because technically, I have a life.

A good one.
A full one.
A responsible one.

So why do I feel… untethered inside it?

The Quiet Way You Lose Yourself

No one tells you that losing yourself usually doesn’t happen in a big, obvious way.

It doesn’t come with an announcement.

It happens slowly.

Between school drop-offs and grocery lists.
Between being needed and being dependable.
Between showing up and holding things together.

You start saying “later” to yourself.

Later I’ll think about that.
Later I’ll figure that out.
Later I’ll focus on me.

And then later turns into years.

And one day you realize you’ve been living almost entirely in response mode.

Responding.
Adjusting.
Adapting.
Managing.

Being useful.
Being needed.
Being reliable.

And somewhere in there, your own voice gets quieter.

Not gone.

Just… harder to hear.

When “I’m Fine” Isn’t the Whole Story

From the outside, most of us look fine.

We’re functioning.
We’re showing up.
We’re doing the things.

So it feels strange to admit:

I feel purposeless sometimes.
I feel disconnected from myself.
I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore.

It feels ungrateful.
Dramatic.
Self-indulgent.

So we don’t say it out loud.

We just carry it.

Quietly.

And wonder if other women secretly feel this way too.

(They do. They just don’t post about it.)

The Version of Me I Miss

Sometimes I think about who I was before everything revolved around logistics.

Before my brain was permanently divided into fifteen tabs.

Before I measured my days mostly by what got done.

She wasn’t better.
She was just… more available to herself.

She had thoughts that weren’t immediately interrupted.
Ideas that weren’t postponed.
Dreams that weren’t filed under “someday.”

I don’t think she’s gone.

I think she’s just been waiting patiently while I’ve been busy surviving.

The Letter That Met Me Here

There’s a letter I wrote called
“My Life Looked Fine — So Why Did I Feel So Bad?”

It’s about that strange place where nothing is technically wrong, but you still feel lost and unsettled inside.

If this reflection feels close to home, that letter tends to meet it gently — without trying to fix it.

What I Actually Know

I don’t have a five-step plan.

I don’t know how to “find yourself again.”
I don’t know how to suddenly feel clear and purposeful and certain.

I still have days where I feel like I’m drifting.
Like I’m doing a lot,
but not always feeling connected to it.

I still Google things like:

“What should I do with my life as a mom?”
“Why do I feel lost in midlife?”
“Why don’t I know who I am anymore?”

So if you’re reading this hoping I’ll explain what it all means…

I can’t.

Because I’m still inside it too.

What I’ve started to notice, though,
is that when I feel disconnected,
it’s usually not because I’m failing at life.

It’s because I’ve been carrying it.

Holding it together.
Keeping things running.
Being the dependable one.
Being the one who doesn’t drop things.

For a long time.

Without much space to ask,
What do I need right now?
Who am I becoming?

I didn’t disappear.

I just got very good at putting myself last.

And sometimes I forget
that I’m allowed to matter too.

So Am I

If you’re wondering who you are now…

So am I.

If you’re trying to remember what used to feel like you…

So am I.

If you’re doing everything you’re supposed to do
and still feeling unsure…

So am I.

I don’t think we’re broken.

We’re tired.
We’re stretched.
We’ve been responsible for a lot of people for a long time.

And we’re quietly trying to find our way back to ourselves.

Together.

No slogans.
No pressure.
No pretending.

Just two women — probably reading this late at night —
wondering what comes next.

And trusting that we’ll figure it out slowly.

Messily.

In our own time.

Mom Guilt: Why You Always Feel Like You’re Failing

Some days, you can do ninety-nine things right.

And one thing wrong.

And somehow…

the one wrong thing wins.

It replays in your head. It sits in your chest. It follows you into the shower. It shows up when you’re trying to sleep.

If you live with mom guilt, you know exactly what I mean.

You forget spirit day.

You snap when you’re tired.

You choose takeout again.

You miss a message.

You need five minutes alone.

And suddenly, your brain is holding court.

Exhibit A: You raised your voice.
Exhibit B: You didn’t cook.
Exhibit C: You’re exhausted.

Verdict: Bad mom.

Case closed.

It’s amazing how quickly it happens.

No trial. No defense. No mercy.

Just instant self-conviction.

I once spent an entire afternoon feeling terrible because I forgot to send a snack.

One snack.

My child was fine. The school had extras. No one was upset.

Except me.

I acted like I’d committed a moral crime.

That’s mom guilt.

Mom guilt isn’t about facts.

It’s about standards.

And it thrives in ambiguity.

There is no clear finish line in motherhood. No grading rubric. No annual review that says, “You’re doing well.”

So your brain invents one.

It creates invisible performance metrics based on comparison, cultural messaging, social media, and whatever you absorbed growing up. Because those standards are undefined, they are impossible to satisfy.

Good moms are patient.
Good moms are present.
Good moms never get tired.
Good moms don’t need breaks.
Good moms don’t mess up.

And if you’re human?

Well.

You’re failing.

So you try harder.

You overcompensate. You apologize too much. You explain yourself. You justify everything.

“I’m sorry, I’m just tired.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know I should’ve done better.”

You’re always defending yourself.

Even when no one asked.

That’s the shame loop.

Make a mistake → attack yourself → try to be perfect → burn out → make another mistake.

Psychologically, guilt feels productive. It creates the illusion that you’re correcting something — that if you feel bad enough, you’ll prevent it next time. If you criticize yourself hard enough, maybe you’ll stay vigilant.

But guilt doesn’t improve performance.

It increases anxiety.

And anxiety narrows compassion — especially toward yourself.

And the hardest part?

You don’t talk about it.

Because it sounds dramatic.
Because other moms seem confident.
Because you’re supposed to be grateful.
Because you love your kids.

So you keep the guilt quiet.

And heavy.

There’s a letter where I went much deeper into this — about always feeling like you have to explain yourself, even when no one is accusing you. It’s called “I Stopped Explaining Myself.” It’s about living like you’re on trial for being human — and how exhausting that becomes.

If this reflection feels close to home, that letter might meet you there.

Here’s something I’ve learned slowly, and reluctantly:

You are not failing.

You are living inside a system that quietly tells mothers:

Do everything.
Feel everything.
Never mess up.
Never complain.
And somehow still enjoy it.

That’s not a fair system.

That’s a setup.

You are raising real people in a real world with a real nervous system and real limits.

Of course you’re tired.
Of course you mess up.
Of course you wish you handled things better sometimes.

That’s not proof you’re bad.

That’s proof you’re human.

Imagine speaking to your children the way you speak to yourself:

“You’re so disappointing.”
“You should’ve done better.”
“Why can’t you get it right?”

You’d never.

Yet you say it to yourself daily.

Often without noticing.

What if you didn’t need to earn your worth through perfection?

What if being loving and trying and showing up was enough?

What if one hard moment didn’t cancel a hundred good ones?

I’m not asking you to stop feeling guilty.

That’s unrealistic.

I’m asking you to notice when it takes over.
When it starts lying.
When it tells you a story about yourself that isn’t true.

You’re not careless. You’re tired.
You’re not selfish. You’re human.
You’re not failing. You’re learning.

Every day.

Maybe today you still forget something.
Still snap once.
Still wish you’d handled a moment differently.

That’s okay.

We’re allowed to be imperfect and loving at the same time.

We’re allowed to grow without hating ourselves first.

We’re allowed to be a good mother without being a flawless one.

And that is enough.

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.

Angry Mom: When You’re Snapping and Don’t Recognize Yourself

It always starts the same way.

You’re fine.

You’re handling it.

You’re patient.

And then suddenly…

you’re not.

You snap.

Your voice sharpens.

You answer too fast.

You shut a cupboard harder than you meant to.

And afterward you stand there thinking,

Who was that?

If you’ve ever searched “angry mom” late at night and felt your stomach drop a little, you’re not alone.

Most days, you try so hard.

You think before you speak.
You regulate.
You soften.
You explain.
You breathe through things that would have set you off years ago.

You don’t want to yell.

So when it happens, it feels awful.

Out of character.
Out of control.
Out of alignment with the mother you want to be.

I once lost it over a spilled drink.

A drink.

No one was hurt. Nothing broke. It was completely fixable.

But I reacted like something catastrophic had happened.

Afterward I stood in the kitchen thinking,

What is wrong with me?

For a long time, I assumed snapping meant I was getting worse at coping.

Maybe I was becoming impatient.
Maybe I was becoming hardened.
Maybe I was turning into “that mom” — the irritated one.

That’s a powerful story to tell yourself.

And a completely unhelpful one.

Eventually, I started noticing something.

I never snapped when I was rested.

I never snapped when I felt supported.

I never snapped when I had space.

I snapped when I was full.

Full of responsibility.
Full of decisions.
Full of noise.
Full of other people’s needs.
Full of being “on.”

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was overflow.

Most of the time, you are managing everything quietly.

You remember the schedules.
You track the moods.
You anticipate the problems.
You translate life for everyone.

You adjust yourself constantly.

And you do it so seamlessly that no one sees the effort.

Until you can’t anymore.

Then one small thing happens.

One interruption too many.
One question too loud.
One demand too close together.

And everything spills out sideways.

Not because you don’t love them.

Because you’re overloaded.

What makes it worse is what happens after.

You calm down.

You apologize.

You repair.

And then you replay it.

In the shower.
In bed.
In the car.

Your tone.
Their face.
That moment.

You wonder if you damaged something permanent.

You wonder if this is who you’re becoming.

That spiral is brutal.

Here’s something I’ve learned slowly.

Anger in motherhood is often a boundary that never got spoken.

It’s the body saying,

This is too much.

This is unsustainable.

This is more than I can hold right now.

But because we don’t allow ourselves to need less, or ask for help, or disappoint anyone, the boundary leaks out as irritation.

And then we shame ourselves for the leak.

That’s the cycle.

Suppress.
Overfunction.
Explode.
Apologize.
Self-attack.
Repeat.

Good mothers get angry.

Not because they’re bad.

Because they’re carrying more than is visible.

Because they’re tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

Because they care deeply and rarely step away.

Anger doesn’t cancel love.

It often lives right beside it.

You are not “an angry mom.”

You are a responsible, emotionally invested woman with limits.

Limits are not moral failures.

They are biological.

Imagine your closest friend said,

“I snapped at my kids today. I feel terrible.”

You wouldn’t think,

Wow. What a failure.

You’d think,

She’s exhausted.

You deserve that same interpretation.

This isn’t about ignoring it.

It’s about listening differently.

What are you overloaded by?
Where are you overextending?
What support are you not receiving?
What are you absorbing that isn’t yours?

Your anger is information.

Not a verdict.

Some days you will still snap.

You will still think later,

I wish I’d handled that better.

So will I.

The difference now is that I don’t immediately decide it means something terrible about me.

Most of the time I just think,

Oh.

I’m tired.

Not surface tired.

Deep tired.

The kind that needs gentleness.

The kind that needs space.

The kind that needs less pressure — especially from me.

I’m still learning this.

Slowly.

With a lot of imperfection.

So if you’re reading this and recognizing yourself, you are not behind.

You are not broken.

You are a human mother in a demanding season.

And that is a very different thing than being an “angry mom.”

Tonight, let that be enough.

Waking Up with Anxiety: Why You’re Tired Before the Day Even Starts

Some mornings, you wake up already tired.

Not “I didn’t sleep well” tired.

More like —
your chest feels tight,
your mind is already listing things,
and you haven’t even opened your eyes yet.

Before coffee.
Before kids.
Before emails.
Before anything has actually happened.

You’re already bracing.

If you’ve ever found yourself waking up with anxiety, you know this feeling. It’s quiet. It’s subtle. It doesn’t announce itself as panic. It just sits there in your body like a low, steady hum.

Something is wrong.
Something is coming.
Don’t relax yet.

So you don’t.

You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself that it’s fine. That today will be fine. That you’ll handle it. That you always do.

And then you get up.
Because of course you do.

I remember one morning in particular.

Nothing dramatic was happening. No crisis. No emergency. Just a normal weekday.

I was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, feeling oddly heavy. My shoulders were already tense. My stomach already tight. I hadn’t spoken to anyone yet. I hadn’t even checked my phone.

And still, I felt behind.

Behind on life.
Behind on energy.
Behind on whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing better.

It took me a while to realize:
I wasn’t tired from the day.

I was tired from the way I had entered it.

When you wake up with anxiety, your body doesn’t start the morning at zero.

It starts at high alert.

Somewhere, quietly, your system has learned that mornings are not neutral. They are the beginning of responsibility. Of performance. Of holding things together.

So it wakes you up early.

Not with rest.
With readiness.

Your brain starts scanning.
What needs to be done?
Who needs me?
What might go wrong?
What did I forget?
What can’t I drop?

All before you’ve brushed your teeth.

No wonder you’re exhausted.

You’ve already run a marathon in your head.

This kind of anxiety doesn’t look like lying in bed shaking.

It looks like:

Getting dressed while worrying.
Packing lunches while overthinking.
Driving while rehearsing conversations.
Answering messages while feeling stretched thin.

It looks like being “on” from the moment you wake up.

High-functioning.
Capable.
Responsible.

And so very tired.

There’s a strange guilt that comes with this.

Because technically, you’re fine.

You’re doing things.
You’re showing up.
You’re managing.

So it feels wrong to admit how hard mornings are.

Other people wake up and stretch and scroll and ease into their day.

You wake up and brace.

And then feel bad for it.

Sometimes I think about how long some of us have been doing this.

Holding things together.
Staying alert.
Trying not to drop anything.

For years.

Decades, sometimes.

You learn, slowly, without meaning to, that being “ready” is safer than being relaxed. That staying a little tense helps you keep up. That letting your guard down feels… risky.

So your body gets used to it.

It learns the rhythm.

Wake up.
Scan the day.
Brace a little.
Go.

Not because you chose it.

Because it worked.

Until it didn’t feel so good anymore.

What makes it harder is that no one sees this part.

They see you functioning.
They see you answering texts.
They see you getting everyone out the door.

They don’t see the internal sprint that happened before breakfast.

So you carry it quietly.

Like you carry most things.

If this feeling sounds familiar, I went deeper into it in “I Wasn’t Too Sensitive — Turns Out I Was Maxed Out,” where I wrote about being tired in a way sleep doesn’t seem to touch — and how confusing that can feel.

If this reflection feels familiar, that letter might feel like someone finally naming it with you.

I don’t have a neat ending for this.

No three-step fix.
No “just think differently.”
No tidy bow.

I just know that waking up this way is heavy.

That starting every day already tired wears on you.
That carrying so much quietly changes you.

And if this is you, you’re not imagining it.
You’re not being dramatic.
You’re not failing at mornings.

You’re responding to a life that’s asked a lot of you.

Maybe today you still get up and do the things.
Maybe you still show up.
Maybe you still keep it together.

But maybe you also let yourself be a little softer with yourself about it.

A little less harsh.
A little less demanding.

Maybe you don’t try to conquer the day.

Maybe you just meet it.

And let that be enough.