von Okay, so I don’t even know where to start, honestly. This isn’t one of those shiny, Pinterest-worthy blog posts with perfect tips and pretty photos. I’m just… sitting here, at my kitchen table, the kids are asleep (thank God), and I’m staring at the dishes in the sink like they’re mocking me. And I guess I just need to say this out loud, or maybe on paper, or wherever this ends up, because I feel like I’m suffocating sometimes, and no one seems to talk about it. No one tells you how lonely being a mom can be.
I mean, sure, people will say “motherhood is hard” or “you need to take care of yourself too,” but it’s always in this weird, casual way, like a throwaway line while we’re at the park or in the school pickup line. But no one really looks you in the eye and says, “Hey, do you feel like you’re disappearing?” or “Do you ever feel like the walls are closing in and you’re not sure who you even are anymore?” I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me.
But I don’t think it is.
There are these days—God, there are so many of them—where I wake up and I’m already tired. Like bone-deep, can’t-breathe tired. And it’s not even physical, it’s like this weight in my chest. I make the kids’ breakfast, pack the lunches, wipe the counters, pick up the Lego pieces off the floor for the hundredth time, and it’s like I’m a robot. A machine. And sometimes I catch my reflection in the mirror and I don’t even recognize myself. My hair’s in a messy bun, my sweatshirt has a stain on it (probably peanut butter), and there are dark circles under my eyes that no concealer could ever fix.
And I feel so alone.
I mean, I love my kids. I love them more than anything. But there are days where I feel like I’m trapped in this house with tiny humans who don’t even see me. Like I’m a vending machine that dispenses snacks and hugs and bandaids and bedtime stories, but not a person. Not Jessica. Just… Mom.
I remember this one day last winter—God, it sticks with me so much. It was snowing like crazy, and the kids were fighting over a toy, and I was trying to make dinner, and my husband was working late again, and I just… snapped. I told them to stop yelling, like really yelled, louder than I meant to, and they both looked at me like I’d grown horns. And then I just stood there, in the kitchen, tears running down my face, while the soup boiled over on the stove, and I thought, “Is this it? Is this what my life is now?”
And the worst part is, I felt so guilty for even thinking that. Like, how dare I not be grateful for these beautiful, healthy kids? There are women out there who would give anything for what I have, and here I am, complaining. And so I swallowed it, stuffed it down, like I always do.
But it eats at you, you know? That loneliness, that guilt, that endless cycle of giving and giving and giving, and never feeling like you’re enough. And the world doesn’t make it any easier. Instagram is full of perfect moms with their perfect homes and perfect kids in matching outfits, and I’m sitting here trying to remember the last time I actually folded the laundry instead of just pulling clothes out of the basket.
There’s this old saying my grandma used to tell me, and I think about it a lot lately. “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” I used to nod and smile like I understood, but I didn’t. Not really. Because when you’re in the thick of it—when the baby’s crying and the toddler’s throwing a tantrum and your husband’s asking where his clean socks are—you pour anyway. Even if your cup is bone dry, even if it’s cracked and chipped and barely holding together, you pour. Because that’s what moms do, right? We give, and give, and give, until there’s nothing left.
But here’s the thing I’m starting to realize—and it’s messy, and I’m still figuring it out—but maybe that saying isn’t just about self-care. Maybe it’s about letting people see when your cup is empty. Maybe it’s about saying, “Hey, I’m not okay. I need help. I can’t do this all alone.”
And that’s the part no one talks about. That’s the part I think we’re all too scared to say out loud. That being a mom can feel so isolating, so crushingly lonely sometimes, and it’s okay to admit that. It doesn’t make you a bad mom. It makes you human.
I mean, look, I have friends. Sort of. I have people I text when I’m feeling like I’m going to lose my mind, but even then, it’s always with a little joke, a little “haha, motherhood, am I right?” But I don’t always feel like I can be real, really real, with them. Like, what would they say if I told them that sometimes I sit in my car in the driveway after a grocery run, just to have five minutes of quiet? That sometimes I fantasize about packing a bag and driving off to a cabin in the woods, just for a week, just so I can hear myself think?
Would they judge me? Would they tell me I’m selfish? Or would they nod, maybe with tears in their eyes, and say, “Me too.”
God, I hope it’s the last one.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m rambling. But I think the thing is, we don’t give ourselves enough credit. We’re doing so much, every single day, and it’s hard. It’s really hard. And we’re not just moms. We’re women. We’re people. We have dreams, and hopes, and frustrations, and it’s okay to feel all of it.
I had this moment the other day—just a little thing, but it felt big to me. I was folding laundry (because of course I was), and my youngest came over and handed me a crumpled dandelion. Just this little, scraggly flower, but he was so proud. And I took it, and I said thank you, and I hugged him tight, and for a second, it felt like maybe the cup wasn’t so empty after all. Maybe it was cracked and chipped and held together with duct tape, but there was still something left to give.
And I thought about that dandelion, and how even the smallest, scrappiest things can feel like love, like a gift.
So maybe that’s what I’m holding onto. That even in the loneliness, even in the exhaustion, there are these little moments of joy, of connection. And maybe we need to talk about that more. Maybe we need to be brave enough to say, “Hey, I’m struggling too.”
Because at the end of the day, we’re all just doing our best. We’re all just trying to keep the wheels turning, to keep the kids alive and the house semi-clean and our sanity somewhat intact. And that’s enough.
It has to be enough.
I don’t have a neat, tidy ending for this. There’s no “and then everything was better.” It’s not. It’s still messy. I’m still tired. I still get lonely. But I’m trying. I’m trying to reach out more, to be honest about how I’m feeling, to ask for help when I need it, even though it’s hard.
And maybe that’s the lesson. That motherhood is beautiful and brutal and lonely and full of love all at the same time. That it’s okay to not have it all figured out. That it’s okay to sit in the car for five minutes of peace, to cry over the laundry, to snap at the kids and then say you’re sorry.
We’re human. We’re moms. And sometimes, that’s the best we can do.
So yeah, maybe my grandma was right, but maybe I’d say it a little differently now. Maybe it’s not just “you can’t pour from an empty cup.” Maybe it’s, “It’s okay to let your cup run low. It’s okay to ask for a refill.”And maybe, just maybe, we can all start talking about it a little more.
Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard. Even if it feels like no one else understands.Because I think we do. I think, deep down, we all know what it feels like to sit in the quiet of the night and wonder if we’re enough.
And you are.You really, really are.
