I Love Being Her Mama, But Fuck… I’m Tired of Doing It Alone

Nobody wants to hear a mother say she’s fucking exhausted.

Not “I could use a nap” tired.

I’m talking about the kind of tired that lives in your fucking bones.

The kind where someone asks, “How are you?” and you automatically say, “I’m good,” because explaining the truth would take three business days and probably end in a mental breakdown.

Because the truth is:

Being a single working mother to a toddler is fucking brutal sometimes.

There.

I said it.

I love my daughter more than anything on this planet.

I would walk through hell barefoot for her.

But some days?

I don’t want to be needed for five goddamn minutes.

I don’t want somebody touching me.

I don’t want to hear “Mommy” for the 700th time.

I don’t want to find another missing shoe, refill another cup, clean another mess, negotiate with a tiny terrorist about why we cannot survive exclusively on fruit snacks, or explain why licking something questionable is generally frowned upon.

I want silence.

I want to sit the fuck down.

And then, because motherhood apparently comes with complimentary emotional self-destruction, I immediately feel guilty for wanting any of that.

Because that’s the fucked-up part nobody prepares you for.

You can love your child more than your own life and still hate how fucking hard motherhood is.

Especially when you’re doing it alone.

There isn’t another parent walking through the door at 6 p.m. saying, “I’ve got her. Go shower.”

There’s no automatic backup.

No guaranteed break.

No tapping somebody else in because your patience has officially left the fucking building.

You’re the morning shift.

The night shift.

The sick-day shift.

The middle-of-the-night shift.

The emotional support department.

The cook.

The chauffeur.

The maid.

The nurse.

The entertainment committee.

The disciplinarian.

The protector.

The person paying the bills.

And somehow you’re also supposed to maintain a career, friendships, relationships, your physical health, your mental health, your appearance, your house, and some mysterious fucking thing called “self-care.”

Self-care?

Girl, sometimes my self-care is sitting in my car for four minutes in complete silence before going inside because I know the second that door opens, somebody needs me again.

Sometimes it’s crying in the shower because that’s the only place I can fall apart privately.

Sometimes it’s staying awake way too fucking late because those few hours after my toddler goes to sleep are the only hours that actually feel like mine.

And then I regret it when the alarm goes off.

But I’ll probably fucking do it again tomorrow.

Because I’m not just physically tired.

I’m tired of being responsible.

I’m tired of thinking about money.

I’m tired of mentally calculating bills.

I’m tired of wondering whether I’m working too much.

I’m tired of feeling guilty because I’m working.

I’m tired of feeling guilty when I’m exhausted after work.

I’m tired of wondering whether I’m giving my daughter enough when I’m already giving her pieces of myself I didn’t even know I had left.

And let’s talk about the loneliness.

Because that shit hits differently.

There are moments when your toddler does something hilarious, adorable, frustrating, or completely fucking unhinged and you instinctively want to look at someone beside you like,

“Are you seeing this shit?”

And nobody’s there.

There are nights when you make dinner, clean the kitchen, handle bath time, survive bedtime, pick up the house, prepare for tomorrow, finally crawl into bed…

and realize nobody asked how you were doing.

Everybody needs something from Mom.

But sometimes you start wondering:

Who the fuck is taking care of Mom?

And sometimes the answer is…

Mom.

Of fucking course.

So you become your own backup plan.

You wipe your own tears.

You give yourself the pep talk.

You figure the money out.

You go to work exhausted.

You handle the emergency.

You solve the problem.

You pick yourself up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Not because you’re some magical superwoman who never struggles.

Sometimes you do it because there isn’t another fucking option.

People love calling single mothers “strong.”

And I know they mean well.

But sometimes I don’t want to be strong.

Sometimes I’d like to be able to fall apart knowing somebody else has everything handled.

Sometimes I’d like someone to notice I’m drowning before I have to fucking announce it.

Sometimes I’d like someone to take something off my plate without asking me to explain exactly how to take it off my plate.

Sometimes I want to be taken care of, too.

That doesn’t make me ungrateful.

It makes me fucking human.

Because underneath “Mommy” is still a woman.

A woman with dreams.

A woman with feelings.

A woman who gets lonely.

A woman who wants love.

A woman who gets overwhelmed.

A woman who sometimes has absolutely no fucking clue what she’s doing.

I’m raising a tiny human while simultaneously trying to build a career, build a future, pay bills, chase goals, keep myself together, and somehow heal parts of me that existed long before somebody started calling me Mommy.

That’s a lot.

And sometimes I don’t carry it gracefully.

Sometimes I’m irritated.

Sometimes I’m overstimulated.

Sometimes dinner isn’t impressive.

Sometimes the laundry lives in the basket.

Sometimes the house looks like a toddler and a raccoon threw a fucking house party.

Sometimes I lose my patience.

Sometimes I cry.

Sometimes I feel like I’m absolutely fucking failing.

But then this tiny little girl crawls into my arms.

She calls me Mommy.

She tells me she loves me.

And suddenly I remember something.

She doesn’t see the woman who’s worried she isn’t doing enough.

She sees home.

She doesn’t know how many times I’ve cried after she fell asleep.

She doesn’t understand the sacrifices.

She doesn’t know how fucking terrified I am of failing her.

She just knows that when something hurts, she runs to me.

When she’s scared, she wants me.

When she’s excited, she looks for me.

When she needs comfort, my arms are where she belongs.

And maybe that’s the part that keeps me going.

Not some inspirational bullshit about being a warrior.

Not because I’m endlessly strong.

Not because motherhood magically makes everything worth it every second of every day.

I keep going because she’s mine.

My little girl.

My reason to drag my exhausted ass out of bed and try again.

And one day, when she’s older, I hope she understands something:

Her mama didn’t have everything figured out.

Her mama wasn’t always okay.

Her mama cried.

Her mama struggled.

Her mama occasionally held her entire fucking life together with caffeine, dark humor, stubbornness, and a prayer.

But her mama showed the fuck up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Even when nobody was showing up for her.

So yes.

I’m tired.

I’m overwhelmed.

Sometimes I’m lonely as fuck.

Sometimes I want to scream.

Sometimes I want one single goddamn day where nobody needs anything from me.

And sometimes I’m holding my shit together with a thread so thin I’m genuinely impressed it hasn’t snapped.

But don’t ever mistake my exhaustion for a lack of love.

Because I will carry every ounce of this chaos if it means my little girl grows up knowing one thing with absolute certainty:

Mommy was always there.

Maybe exhausted.

Maybe overwhelmed.

Maybe slightly fucking feral.

But there.

Always fucking there.

And if that’s not strength, I don’t know what the hell is.