Smiling Outside, Breaking Inside

There are nights she goes into the bathroom, turns on the tap, and lets the running water drown out the sound of her crying.

By morning, she is back in the kitchen frying eggs. She is in the school car park waving at other mums. She is laughing at her cousin's voice note. She is replying to her boss with three exclamation marks because that is what soft, capable women do.

Nobody knows. Not her husband sleeping next to her. Not her mother who calls every Sunday. Not even her closest friend who would drop everything for her if she just said the word.

But she will not say the word.

Because she does not know how to explain that she loves her children more than her own breath and is still drowning. That her life looks beautiful from the outside and feels unbearable from the inside. That she has not felt like herself in so long, she is starting to forget who that woman was.

This is not weakness. This is not ingratitude. This is what happens when a woman has been quietly holding too much for too long.

People have a name for it now. They call it high functioning depression. Emotional burnout. Masking. The clinical words matter less than what it actually feels like, which is this:

You are still showing up. You are still doing everything. And something inside you is quietly going out, like a candle nobody noticed was burning down.

So many mums are living here right now. Some of them are reading this. Some of them are you.

Why we hide it

From the moment a woman becomes a mother, the world hands her a script. Be grateful. Be glowing. Be patient. Be soft when the baby cries at 3am and softer still when your husband asks why dinner is late.

Nobody hands you the script with the real lines on it. The ones about how your body feels like a stranger. How some days you love your child and resent the version of yourself motherhood has made you. How you can be deeply blessed and deeply exhausted at the same time, and both things are true.

So you swallow the hard parts. You learn to perform. And the better you get at performing, the lonelier it gets, because now everyone thinks you are fine.

Then there is the phone.

You open Instagram at midnight while the baby finally sleeps on your chest. You see her. The mum with the clean kitchen and the matching pyjamas and the caption about how her toddler said something funny at brunch. You see the one with the postpartum body that bounced back. The one with the husband who brings her flowers for no reason. The one whose baby sleeps through the night.

You scroll for fifteen minutes and you feel worse than you did before you picked up the phone. Because the only mother you have proof of falling apart is you.

Nobody posts the tears in the bathroom. Nobody posts the moment they shouted at the toddler and then locked themselves in the pantry to cry. We are all comparing our behind the scenes to everyone else's highlight reel.

Your body is keeping score

Here is the part nobody warns you about. When you spend months or years pretending to be okay, your body starts telling the truth your mouth will not.

It shows up as the headache that never quite goes away. The neck pain. The exhaustion that sleep cannot fix because even when you sleep, your mind is still running through the list. The short fuse with the children that makes you hate yourself by bedtime. The way you forget words mid sentence. The way food has lost its taste. The way you cannot remember the last time you laughed and meant it.

The body carries what the mouth refuses to say. And the longer it carries, the louder it eventually has to speak.

A quiet mirror

You might be doing this without realising it. See if any of these feel familiar:

You say I am fine so often it has become a reflex, not an answer

You feel guilty every time you sit down

You cry in the car, in the shower, in the kitchen, then wipe your face and keep going

You are tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep

You no longer enjoy the things that used to bring you joy

You feel lonely in a room full of people who love you

You snap at the smallest thing and spend the rest of the day hating yourself for it

You have stopped reaching out because explaining feels like too much work

You cannot remember the last time you felt like yourself

If you read that list and felt something tighten in your chest, please do not scroll past this next part.

Strength is not what they told you

We were raised to believe strong women suffer in silence. That a real mother bears everything without complaining. That asking for help is somehow proof that you are not built for this.

It is a lie. A beautiful, exhausting, generational lie.

Strength is not enduring everything alone. Strength is knowing when the weight is too much for one set of shoulders and asking another set to help carry it.

You can love motherhood and still need a break from it. You can adore your children and still grieve the woman you used to be. You can be grateful for everything you have and still be allowed to say, out loud, that today feels heavy.

Both things can be true. They always have been.

Where to start, when starting feels impossible

We are not going to tell you to do a yoga class or run a bubble bath. You are too tired for that and you know it.

Start smaller. Embarrassingly small. So small that even on your worst day, you can manage it.

Tell one person. Not the whole world. Just one. The friend who never judges you. The cousin who always picks up. The mum from playgroup who already looks like she might understand. Send the message you have been drafting in your head for weeks. It can be one sentence. I am not okay and I do not know how to say it out loud. That is enough.

Rest for ten minutes without earning it first. Sit down before the dishes are done. Close your eyes while the baby naps instead of finally doing the laundry. The world will not collapse. Test it.

If you have the means, find a therapist. If you do not, find a free support line, a community group, a faith leader, a doctor who will listen. Mental health support in our part of the world is not always easy to access, but it exists, and it is worth the effort of finding it.

And please, the next time someone asks how you are, try answering honestly with just one person. Watch what happens.

One last thing

Somewhere right now, another mum is reading this in the dark while her family sleeps. She is crying because finally, finally, someone described what she has been carrying alone.

That mum is not weak. She is not failing. She is not the only one.

She is doing one of the hardest jobs in the world without enough support, without enough rest, and without permission to fall apart. The fact that she is still standing is a miracle she should be celebrated for, not a baseline she should be punished for not exceeding.

You do not have to keep performing. You do not have to keep pretending. You are allowed to be a whole human being, in all your beautiful complicated mess, and still be a brilliant mother.

So today, maybe you do not take off the mask completely. Maybe you just loosen it. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to let one person see the real you underneath.

That is where it starts. Not with a grand declaration. Just with a small, brave breath.

And we are here when you are ready.

If you need to talk to someone today

If you are in crisis or struggling with thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out to a mental health professional, a trusted person, or one of these helplines:

Nigeria: Mentally Aware Nigeria Initiative (MANI) and the Postnatal Support Network Foundation

Global: Postpartum Support International (PSI) helpline

Or speak to your doctor, midwife, or any healthcare professional you trust

You are not alone in this. You never were.