It’s not shouting.
It’s not slamming doors.
It’s not one big dramatic moment where everything explodes.
It’s standing in the kitchen, silent tears running down your face while you wait for the kettle to boil.
It’s folding the same blanket again just to feel like something is in your control.
It’s saying yes to another playdate, another outing, another ask —
not because they earned it,
but because you don’t have the energy left to say no.
She’s nine.
She’s full of fire, feeling everything all at once.
And some days, it spills out sharp and hard —
in moods, in tantrums, in words she doesn’t yet understand can wound.
She doesn’t know how much it takes to be the one who absorbs it all.
To be the shore she crashes against.
To love her through the storm when you’re running on empty yourself.
And I do love her — more than anything.
She’s my whole heart walking around in the world.
But I’m tired.
Tired of trying so hard and still feeling like I’m getting it wrong.
Tired of being spoken to like I’m nothing.
Tired of holding everything together when no one’s holding me.
This week broke something quiet inside me.
Not permanently — just enough to make me stop and say: I can’t do it all.
So today I said yes to the boat trip.
Not because her behaviour has been okay — it hasn’t —
but because sometimes, space is the kindest thing we can give each other.
And maybe, just maybe, I needed that space too.
This isn’t a breakdown.
It’s just a truth that doesn’t get said enough:
Mothers break, too.
Not out loud. Not all at once.
But slowly — in the quiet moments when no one’s looking.
And still, we show up.
Still loving.
Still trying.
Still whispering, “Come home safe.”