There’s an exhaustion that lives in my bones, one that sleep can’t touch. It’s the kind that comes from being needed in every direction at once, from carrying the invisible weight of a home that only feels balanced because I keep it that way. I’ve been the default parent for so long that it feels less like a role and more like an identity I didn’t choose but somehow grew into. I love my child endlessly. I would do anything for them. But there are moments when love and exhaustion blur together until I can’t tell them apart.
Every day feels like a rotation of small sacrifices: the meals, the laundry, the appointments, the school forms, the reminders that no one else seems to remember until they need them. I’ve become the keeper of everyone’s schedules, moods, and messes. And it’s not that I resent them; it’s that I resent how easily it’s all expected of me. How natural it feels for others to assume that I’ll just handle it, that I’ll figure it out, that I’ll be the one to bend so nothing breaks. When I finally stop to catch my breath, the house reminds me I can’t: the dishes, the clutter, the undone things all staring back as proof that rest comes with a price.
Once, I tried to boycott it all. Just stopped. Let the mess sit. Let the laundry pile up. I thought maybe someone would notice. Maybe someone else would step in. But instead, my child asked, “Why is it so dirty?” And that question pierced through me. Not because they meant harm, but because it showed how invisible the work really is until it’s undone. So, of course, I cleaned it up. Because that’s what mothers do. We fix what no one else sees falling apart. We hold everything steady so the people we love don’t have to feel the cracks.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve made it too easy for everyone, if my strength has become the reason no one asks how I’m really doing. People see a mother who has it all together, not the woman behind her who’s quietly unraveling just to keep things functioning. The truth is, I don’t always feel like a team. I feel like the safety net, the one who catches everything that slips through the cracks. And while I’m proud of that, it’s also lonely. There’s a quiet ache in doing everything for everyone and realizing no one knows what that really costs you.
I think part of my anger comes from the silence- the way so many women carry this same exhaustion and rarely talk about it out loud. Because if we do, it sounds like complaining. It sounds ungrateful. But it’s not. It’s the human side of devotion, the raw truth behind the love that keeps us moving. We can adore our families and still crave rest. We can be proud of what we do and still ache for someone to take the load, even for a day.
I’ve started to realize that being the default parent isn’t just about logistics, it’s emotional too. It’s being the one who feels everything first. The one who wakes at the sound of a whisper, who carries the worry, who notices the small changes no one else does. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also consuming. It’s giving all of yourself to the people you love, even when there’s barely anything left for you.
And yet, no matter how tired I am, I still show up. Every single day. I show up because love makes you do impossible things. But I’m learning that showing up doesn’t have to mean losing myself in the process. Maybe it’s okay to admit that I’m tired. Maybe it’s okay to ask for help. Maybe it’s okay to stop carrying everything alone and still call that love.
Because at the end of the day, I don’t want my child to remember a mother who never stopped moving. I want them to remember a woman who felt deeply, who showed them what strength really looks like; not perfection, but perseverance. The kind that keeps showing up, not because she has to, but because she chooses to, even when it’s hard.
-Honest
Actually, I'm not fine... blog 