When Marriage Feels Hard After Kids

We used to finish each other's sentences. Now we barely finish conversations before a child interrupts. We used to have date nights and lazy Sunday mornings in bed. Now we communicate through text messages about whose turn it is to change the nappy and whether we need more milk. Nobody told me that becoming parents would make my husband and me feel like strangers living in the same house. We had our first baby after three years of marriage. We were ready—or so we thought. We'd read the books, attended the classes, set up the nursery with care and excitement. We were a team, and we were going to ace this parenting thing together. Reality hit hard and fast. Suddenly, every decision became a negotiation. Who gets to shower first? Who had less sleep last night? Whose career is more important? Who's more tired? We were keeping score of everything, building resentment with every unspoken frustration. I remember the exact moment I realized we were in trouble. Our son was six months old, and we were at a family gathering. Someone asked, "How's married life with a baby?" We both smiled and said, "Great! Tiring but great!" But in the car ride home, we sat in complete silence. The only sound was our baby sleeping in the back seat. We had nothing to say to each other that wasn't about bottles or sleep schedules. That silence was deafening. The intimacy disappeared first. I was so touched out from breastfeeding and holding a baby all day that the last thing I wanted was physical affection. My husband felt rejected. I felt pressured. Neither of us knew how to talk about it without starting a fight. Then came the division of labour arguments. I felt like I was doing everything—night feeds, doctor appointments, remembering when we needed to buy more nappies. He felt like he was working hard to provide and that I didn't appreciate his contributions. We were both right, and we were both wrong. I resented him for having the freedom to go to work, to use the bathroom alone, to eat lunch without someone crying for attention. He resented me for getting to "stay home" (as if caring for an infant was a holiday) while he dealt with work pressure. We stopped being lovers and became coworkers in the business of raising a child. Our conversations revolved entirely around logistics. "Did he poop today?" "What time is his doctor's appointment?" "Can you pick up nappies on your way home?" Romance felt like a distant memory from someone else's life. The breaking point came during a massive argument over something ridiculous—I think it was about loading the dishwasher wrong. I said something cruel about him not being present enough. He said something hurtful about me always being critical. We both cried. Our son cried. The whole house was just... broken. That night, after we'd both calmed down and put our son to bed, we sat at the kitchen table and had the most honest conversation we'd had in months. "I miss you," I said. "I miss us." "Me too," he whispered. "I feel like I'm failing at being a husband and a father." That vulnerability cracked both of us wide open. We both admitted we didn't know what we were doing. We both admitted we were exhausted and scared and grieving the life we used to have while also loving our son more than anything. Here's what helped us find our way back: We started going to couples therapy. At first, my husband was resistant ("We don't need a stranger to fix our problems"), but after two sessions, he was all in. Having a mediator helped us communicate without attacking each other. We scheduled weekly check-ins. Every Sunday evening after our son goes to bed, we sit together and talk about the week—what went well, what was hard, what we each need from the other. No phones, no TV, just us. We became intentional about small moments of connection. A kiss before he leaves for work. Holding hands on the couch while we watch TV. A text message during the day saying "I love you" instead of just "We need milk." We stopped keeping score. This was the hardest one. We had to let go of the mental tally of who did more and start operating from a place of grace. Some weeks I do more. Some weeks he does more. That's partnership. We scheduled regular date nights, even if "date night" meant ordering takeaway after the baby was asleep and watching a movie together. The point wasn't grand romantic gestures—it was prioritizing us. We learned to communicate our needs clearly. Instead of "You never help," I started saying "I'm overwhelmed and I need you to take over bedtime tonight so I can have an hour to myself." Specific requests got better results than vague complaints. Most importantly, we forgave each other. We forgave the harsh words said in exhaustion. We forgave the resentment that built up. We forgave ourselves for not being perfect at this massive life transition. It's been two years since those dark months, and our marriage isn't perfect, but it's stronger. We have a second child now, and while it's still hard, we have tools and communication patterns that help us navigate the chaos together. To the mama reading this who feels disconnected from her partner—you're not alone. It's normal for marriage to feel hard after kids. You're not failing. You're adjusting to a massive change, and that takes time and effort and grace. Your marriage can survive this season. But you both have to fight for it. You have to be intentional. You have to choose each other, even when you're exhausted. You fell in love once. You can fall in love again—this time as parents, with deeper understanding and harder-won appreciation for each other. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with your partner. You're both learning as you go. ❤️