Yvette
pnda
I became very good at masking what was really going on while privately I was falling apart.
When I became a mother, it was the happiest time of my life. I had my children later in life - my eldest daughter was born two days before my 38th birthday, my second daughter at 40, and then our son completed our little family. Three healthy children, a loving husband, a beautiful home, a successful career - my life looked perfect.
Well, it should have been. I adored being a mother. But somewhere amongst the sleepless nights, the pressure I put on myself to be everything to everyone, and the relentless pace of motherhood, I slowly stopped recognising myself.
At first, it was subtle. I told myself I was just tired. But the exhaustion became something deeper. I felt anxious all the time. Overwhelmed. Restless. Detached. I couldn’t switch off. Even when the children slept, I couldn’t rest because my mind wouldn’t stop racing.
I was trying so hard to hold everything together, but I completely stopped checking in with myself. I became very good at masking what was really going on while privately I was falling apart.
Eventually, like a house of cards in a windstorm, everything collapsed.
My anxiety escalated into panic attacks. I started self-medicating with alcohol and what began as trying to cope slowly became its own battle. There were periods where I became so unwell I needed hospitalisation. My marriage broke down. There were times I wasn’t able to properly care for my children and as a mother, that shattered me.
Healing didn’t happen overnight. It took years. Therapy. Self-reflection. Support. Learning to stop punishing myself for struggling. Learning that being a good mother didn’t mean sacrificing myself completely. Most importantly, I learned that there is no shame in not coping.