The Truth About Motherhood Burnout (And How I Survived It)

I hit rock bottom at 3am on a Tuesday morning. My 18-month-old daughter was screaming for the third time that night, there was a mountain of unwashed dishes in the sink, and I was standing in the kitchen in my stained pyjamas, crying so hard I could barely breathe. That's when I knew—I was completely burned out. It didn't happen overnight. Motherhood burnout crept up on me slowly, like a thief in the night. I thought I was doing everything right. I meal-prepped on Sundays, followed the sleep schedules religiously, did educational play activities I found on Pinterest, kept the house spotless, and made sure my daughter looked picture-perfect whenever we left the house. From the outside, I looked like I had it all together. But inside? I was drowning. Somewhere between the third tantrum of the day and the tenth load of laundry, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd done something just for myself. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed. Really laughed. I was going through the motions, but I wasn't present. I was just... surviving. The guilt was suffocating. Good mothers don't get tired, right? Good mothers don't resent their children for needing them. Good mothers don't fantasize about running away to a hotel room just to sleep for 12 hours straight. But that's exactly what I was feeling, and it made me feel like the worst person in the world. I snapped at my husband over the smallest things. He would come home from work and ask "What's for dinner?" and I would explode. Didn't he see how exhausted I was? Didn't he notice that I'd been touched and needed and demanded from all day long? The resentment built up like a wall between us. My breaking point came that Tuesday night. After I got my daughter back to sleep, I sat on the bathroom floor and googled "Do I hate being a mother?" The search results were terrifying and comforting at the same time. I wasn't alone. Thousands of other mothers were typing those same desperate words into their phones at 3am. The next morning, I made three phone calls that changed everything. First, I called my mum and asked for help. Not the "pop by for tea" kind of help, but real, "I need you to take my daughter for a whole weekend so I can sleep and breathe and remember who I am" kind of help. She was on my doorstep within two hours. Second, I called my best friend and admitted I wasn't okay. I told her everything—the resentment, the exhaustion, the guilt. She didn't judge me. She said, "I've been there. You're not a bad mum. You're a burned-out mum, and that's different." Third, I called my doctor and booked an appointment. I needed to make sure this wasn't postpartum depression (it wasn't, but it was close), and I needed professional help to develop coping strategies. Here's what saved me: I learned to ask for help without apologizing. "Can you watch her for an hour while I take a bath?" became a regular sentence in my vocabulary. I stopped feeling guilty for needing breaks. I lowered my standards. The house doesn't need to be spotless. Frozen nuggets for dinner won't traumatize my child. Educational activities are great, but so is letting her play with pots and pans while I sit and drink my coffee hot. I started saying no. No to the birthday party I didn't have energy for. No to hosting Christmas dinner. No to the pressure to be everything to everyone. I found my village. I joined a local mums' group where we could be honest about the hard stuff. No Instagram filters, no pretending. Just real women supporting each other through the trenches. Most importantly, I started doing one thing every day just for me. Sometimes it was a 10-minute walk around the block. Sometimes it was reading a chapter of a book. Sometimes it was painting my nails while my daughter napped. These tiny acts of self-care felt revolutionary. It's been six months since that breaking point, and I won't lie—I still have hard days. Days when I'm touched out and exhausted and counting down to bedtime. But I also have good days now. Days when I can be present and joyful and actually enjoy this journey. If you're reading this at 3am, feeling like you're drowning, please hear me: You are not a bad mother. You are a burned-out mother, and there's a difference. Burnout doesn't mean you don't love your children. It means you've been pouring from an empty cup for too long. You deserve rest. You deserve help. You deserve to take care of yourself without feeling guilty. Be gentle with yourself, mama. You're doing better than you think. ❤️