28/12/2025
Today I hate myself for how hard I find this.
I did not plan to post this today. I am supposed to be busy having fun, being festive, being grateful. I am sharing it anyway because shame survives in silence, and I cannot be the only one feeling this.
As a child, I was called the miserable one. That label never left. Today, again, I feel like I am that person. The shame of it comes from deep in my body.
But I am not being miserable. I am overwhelmed. I am struggling.
My needs feel invisible today. Not because the people I love are unkind, but because I have spent years being capable, accommodating, holding things together quietly. Maybe I have hidden it too well. So when I falter, it feels like I have broken an unspoken rule.
I cannot cope with the clutter, the visual noise, the lack of space. I cannot cope with the exhaustion that does not lift. I cannot cope with the constant demands layered on top of everything else.
No one sees that.
They just see me not being joyful.
They do not see how much I am holding in, or that this is not a lack of love. It is love. It is what I put myself through because I love them.
I watch my teenagers going about their day and I ache to be the kind of mother who can steady herself simply by knowing they are okay.
But my nervous system does not work like that.
And I hate myself for it.
The shame tells me I should cope better. That other mothers do. That needing care is failure. I know this is trauma and neurodivergence. I know my love for my children is not in question.
But today, I do not have the capacity to offer myself compassion. Today, I am just surviving.
I am sharing this because shame loses its grip when spoken aloud, and because someone else needs to hear they are not broken for finding this hard.
No neat ending. Just honesty.
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