It happened on a Monday. I was sitting across the table from my husband during lunch, our newborn son asleep in my arms, and I said the words that had been bubbling up for weeks, well, honestly, years. “I can’t go back.” Nine weeks postpartum with baby number three, and I finally cracked.
I’ve never been the type to cry, and I’m sometimes described as a bit cold. I’ve always been the one who just keeps going because things need to get done and someone has to do them. I’m the planner, the researcher, the one who knows when swim lessons start, where the zoo membership cards are, what everyone wants for Christmas, and when we’re due for the next pediatrician visit. I keep the machine of our family running, and I enjoy doing it. But this time, I cracked.
For so long, the only direction life moved was forward and adding more. Since 2020, we’ve welcomed three children into our family. In the fall of 2023, I started my MBA. Because why not, right? I’ve always been the ambitious type. In the summer of 2024, I started doing part-time consulting work. Then, in the fall of 2024, I started a small business reselling thrifted clothes. Something creative. Something for me. We juggle soccer practices, swim lessons, family visits, zoo trips, and memberships to museums that we try to use enough to “make it worth it.” We say yes to the birthday parties, the playdates, the get-togethers. I pour into my friendships. I try to remember everyone’s birthdays, send texts just because, and keep relationships warm even when I’m running cold. It’s not just the physical to-dos. It’s the mental load. The tabs open in my mind at any given time would crash even the fastest browser. I’ve always been “on,” and it’s not that I didn’t see the weight building. I just thought I could carry it. I always have.
But that Monday, I looked at my husband, and through tears I didn’t expect and words I don’t usually use, I told him I couldn’t keep going like this. I couldn’t go back to work. Not when I’m barely hanging on. Not when every bit of me feels maxed out. I told him I didn’t want to be a burden. That’s the kicker, right? We contribute equally to our household financially. There’s no “his money” or “my money.” But somewhere deep inside me, that wiring of worth being measured in productivity and output, that sneaky cultural lie, made me feel like stopping, even for a moment, might tip the balance in an unforgivable way. I don’t want to be the reason we scale back on Christmas or think twice about taking a vacation. I feel broken and selfish all at the same time. Am I putting my needs before my family? What came out wasn’t a polished plan or even a clear solution. It was raw, uncertain, and vulnerable.
I’m not writing this because I have an answer. We haven’t made any big decisions yet. I’m still figuring out what comes next. I just know that something needs to come off the plate. Because for too long, everything’s only been added. I think a lot of moms know exactly what I mean. We’re praised for juggling it all, for holding everything together, for being so strong. But what happens when the strong one breaks? I’m not looking for a trophy or even a gold star. I’m not someone who thrives on compliments or encouragement. In fact, words of affirmation often make me a little uncomfortable. I don’t need to hear I’m doing a good job. I feel it when my people are laughing. Quality time is my love language. I live for those moments where I feel us all together, connected.
Lately, the doing has outweighed the being. It turns out that even the strongest people have limits. Even the best planners can’t manage a schedule that never breathes. Even moms who look like they’re thriving can be barely hanging on. I cracked, and in the cracking, I found clarity. Not total clarity, but the first step. The acknowledgment. The truth: I can’t do it all, and I don’t want to do it all.
So this is my first little act of rebellion. Writing this and saying it out loud. Sharing it with other moms in case they’ve cracked, or they’re on the verge, or they’ve been silently carrying more than they should. You are not alone. You’re allowed to stop. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to change your mind, to let go of something, to say, “This is too much.” I don’t know what the next version of my life looks like, but I know it can’t look like this. Not anymore. Maybe, just maybe, the crack wasn’t a breaking; it was an opening.
