I look at my kids.
Small. Beautiful. So full of life.
FULL OF LIFE!
They call me.
“Mama!” “Mama!” “Mama!” “Mama!”
Nonstop!
I’m here. In my body. With my eyes. With my ears. With a tired smile I hope will fool them. I brought them to the park because I can’t handle the noise and chaos at home anymore.
We all need air. Space. Something that can crack open the window of my mind, to let the light in.
Burnout has stolen every trace of clarity. Fatigue is quicksand dragging me down, even when I stand still. My mind is a thick fog. It drowns every flicker that could turn into a special moment. My body is a rock in murky water.
I’m tired of being tired.
I watch them spin each other on the carousel and I’m the one getting dizzy. I lift my eyes to the sky and breathe deeply.
“Enjoy it now, time flies!” someone says from a nearby bench.
I smile. I hear that a lot. I tell it to myself a lot. I repeat it in my head a thousand times a day. Older people, or those who’ve already been through this stage, say it too. Maybe they only remember the soft lights of the past.
I know time flies! I know I’ll look back one day and miss it all.
I look at my oldest boy and wonder “where did ten years go?” I remember holding both of them in my arms. Babies. Fragile. Angelic. Then, I imagine the day they’ll close the door to our home and only come back to visit. And I burst into tears.
A ball hits my leg and I jump.
“Time flies in a blink!” I hear again.
“If only you knew that sometimes I don’t even have the energy to blink…”, I say in my head.
It feels like I’m hanging by a thread over a cliff, and someone keeps nudging me, saying:
“Enjoy the view.”
I want to enjoy it. God, I want that so much! And I hate myself for not being able to. I want to hug them every second and not feel this weight crushing my chest. I want to laugh with them, take them out just because I feel like it, not because I should. I want to remember every moment, keep it in my heart. To be truly present. Not just a hollow outline of the mother I wish I were.
But my reality is different.
Most mornings I wake up as if someone emptied me out during the night: A shell that has to rise and keep going. My thoughts are foggy. My body won’t cooperate. Every sound is a blow to the head.
Even my children’s laughter, even their play, hurts. It tears me into particles that cram together inside me like a pressure cooker. And on top of it all comes this mantra:
“Enjoy it now.” But how?
– “Mama, push me!” says the little one.
I push hard, just how he likes it.
His laughter gets tangled, in my head, with the unpaid bills.
– “Higher!” he shouts.
The laundry is still wet in the machine. I haven’t answered that email from work. We’ll get home and they’ll be hungry. What do I cook? One’s vegetarian, the other can’t have gluten or dairy. My husband and his allergies… Seven meals again. Oh god, I didn’t call my mom.
– “To the moon!”
How am I supposed to enjoy all this, when I have to play all these roles? Mother. Wife. Daughter. Big sister to eight siblings. Friend. Workaholic. All at once. Without pause. And all of them have to go well, or else my world collapses. Wait—it already has.
And what does not being present even mean? That I don’t exist? How can I be present when I don’t even have time to be? I’m clinging to a grain of sand and everyone’s shouting: “Hold tighter! Just hang on better!”
The swing stops with a screech.
With a thud, the little one crashes at my feet. But he’s laughing.
– “Mama! Catch me now!”
– “No, honey, not me,” I say. “Your brother will catch you!”
– “No! He’s too fast. I want you! You run like a grandma!”
– “Let’s race home,” I say. (I’ve had enough of the park.)
While they roll around on the ground, crying and refusing to go, in my mind I go back to Australia.
Back then, I wasn’t working full-time. I stayed home with them. They were even smaller. Both under three. I had all the time in the world. Just for them. Even some scraps left for my husband.
But for me? Nothing. Not even a paid job to break the routine. No tribe, no family, not many friends. No burnout. No long Covid. But also, no serenity, no joy of motherhood.
I was the same. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Swallowed by daily life in a paradise where must consumed every moment of peace.
Maybe the problem isn’t where I am or what I’m doing. Maybe it’s the massive pressure to feel, to do, to live, to be “how I’m supposed to.” Maybe it’s the lack of space where I can exist as me. To remember who I am, outside of these roles. To know what I love. To have hobbies. To recharge somewhere. Because I keep giving, and giving, and giving.
Where do I refill? “From their joy,” I want to say. Sometimes that works. But it’s not enough. Because the drain is faster than the charge.
If I had two cables, one trying to charge and one sucking everything out, the input would be zero, or one, maybe, from a couple of happy-child smiles.
But the output? Negative infinity.
The system crashes.
Wait… this also, already happened.
“Enjoy it now! Be present while they’re small! Little kids, little problems!”
This time, my eyes roll by themselves.
I imagine that instead of advice, I feel a hand on my shoulder and I hear:
“Are you okay?”
And I’d say that because I have been trying to be everything for everyone for so many years, I ended up in burnout.
And they’d smile with empathy and say, with their eyes:
“I get it.”
But that only happens in my head.
Who decided presence means smiles and perfect moments?
Maybe presence looks like this: a mother sitting on a bench, watching her kids play, or scream, feeling everything and nothing, all at once. Maybe being present means admitting that sometimes, all I can do is breathe. To be here. Even like this. A tired, fuzzy, unsure version of me. And what if I can’t feel joy? What if all I feel is the weight of a guilt sack getting heavier every day?
Like when I wanted to go see a movie alone and the kids clung to my legs, crying. Or when I wanted to see a friend I hadn’t seen since I still felt like a person, but invited her to my place, because at least I was near the kids. Didn’t leave them behind crying. Or every time they ask me to play, and I say I have something important to do first. Each time scrapes at me. Until I fade. Bit by bit. So slowly I don’t even notice when I’m gone.
But yes, time passes. And I’m scared. Scared I’ll wake up one day and regret not being more. I already do.
Scared of the longing that will come. The regret that will cut through me. They’re already here.
I remember how I felt each time I lost someone I loved. No matter how much time I’d spent with them,
how much I told them I loved them, I always felt guilty. Like I could’ve done more. Should’ve stayed longer. Said one more thing. Held their hand one more time. It wasn’t just the loss that hurt. It was the feeling that I wasted something precious without knowing.
That’s how I feel now. Like I’m grieving in advance. A goodbye that hasn’t come yet, but already aches.
Yes, kids grow up and leave. But I, their mother, am a human being too. Not just a storage box for future memories.
I’m afraid that in trying so hard to enjoy tomorrow, I’m failing to survive today.
Time passes, yes. But I don’t have to squeeze every second into a gallery of perfect moments.
I can’t always enjoy it. And maybe… that’s okay.
Maybe one day, when it all feels lighter, I will enjoy it.
Maybe sometimes, the greatest proof of love is just being here. Even as I am now.
–“Come on, kids, let’s go home! We’re ordering pizza!”