There is a certain kind of exhaustion people rarely talk about and this one, sleep doesn’t really fix neither does it disappear after a meal or quiet hour. This type sits in your bones, stretches into your back, settles behind your eyes, and then asks you how long you can keep going.
It’s festive season, and like most families, we’ve all gathered at my parents’ house. My eldest sister who we barely see, showed up too but with her children. Five of them, and just like that, without a conversation or consent, I became their full-time babysitter.
Children actually have a way of finding the nearest available adult and claiming them. Three of them can cry at the same time, each for a different reason, convinced theirs is the most urgent. The eldest is thirteen, that one, she’s already burdened with responsibilities she didn’t ask for. The youngest is two, a small boy with endless energy and needs that do not pause. He is the biggest workload. By the end of the day, my body aches in places I didn’t know could ache. I crawl into bed with a sore back and a mind too tired to rest.
And oh, it hit me that this is just a glimpse. Just a fraction.
People romanticize motherhood so easily. They talk about love, purpose, fulfillment but they rarely talk about the mental load, emotional labour and the physical toll. How one child can be managed, but two becomes overwhelming, and three or more can feel like drowning while still being expected to smile. They don’t talk about how constant noise chips away at your patience, how your body becomes a tool for others, how your needs quietly move to the bottom of the list.
Yesterday, after the noise of celebrating had died down, I asked my sister softly, if she had ever been depressed. She didn’t hesitate, “More times than I can count,” she said. I nodded and said nothing, because what could I say? Her answer lingered with me, heavy and undeniable.
At that moment, I understood why I can never judge a woman who says she doesn’t want children. Not in this life or in the next. I understand now why some women choose themselves. Why some walk away from expectations placed on their bodies and futures. Even with help, even with a nanny, children always return to their mothers. Their cries, fears, questions, and needs eventually find her. There is no full escape from that responsibility.
This experience made me rethink everything I thought I knew about motherhood. Not because it isn’t beautiful but because it is hard in ways people don’t prepare you for. And acknowledging that difficulty doesn’t make a woman weak, it actually makes her honest.
If we talked more openly about the stress, mental, physical, emotional, maybe fewer women would feel broken for struggling. Maybe fewer mothers would suffer in silence and perhaps choosing not to have children would stop being seen as selfish and start being seen as self-aware.
As I write this, I am stretching my aching back and occasionally closing my eyes, I hold this truth gently, truth that love does not erase exhaustion, and motherhood is not the only measure of a woman’s worth. And sometimes, understanding comes not from living a life but from briefly stepping into someone else’s shoes and realizing just how heavy they are.
PS: This isn’t a condemnation of motherhood, just an honest acknowledgment of how heavy care can be.