The stillness of my home is almost eerie. All of my kids are peacefully asleep, and yet, I find myself wide awake, utterly drained. It’s the kind of tiredness that seeps into your bones, making you yearn for rest. I long to crawl into bed, pull the covers over me, and melt into a deep sleep as nature intended. But alas, my mind refuses to cooperate.
If only I could tone it down just a little, perhaps I could finally find peace. But not tonight. Or on most nights, for that matter.
After the birth of my son, I distinctly remember a commercial featuring a couple wrapped in a tangle of sheets, sound asleep. The tagline was something like “Sleep like you did before parenthood.” I felt a pang of envy, longing for those carefree nights. It’s the simple act of my mind allowing me to rest that I miss the most. Fast forward 14 years, and I still yearn for the serene and rested person I used to be before my children arrived. The worries don’t magically vanish as they grow older; in fact, they often intensify. The feeling of bearing the weight of the world becomes a constant companion.
I’m working on accepting this new reality. But goodness, I’m so tired.
I’ve attempted gratitude exercises and meditation. While they make me feel appreciative, they don’t quite lull me to sleep. My thoughts spring back to life instantly, and the lists of worries start to accumulate.
Chamomile tea? A brief experiment that led to countless trips to the bathroom all night. As for reading, it only makes me drowsy until anxiety kicks in the moment I think I can set the book aside and drift off.
I find myself fretting about my son—he’s been unusually quiet lately. Is he spending too much time with his girlfriend? Is he eating enough? Are they becoming sexually active? When was the last time I had a talk with him about respecting boundaries? Was it last month or just a couple of weeks ago? Today’s the 10th—maybe I should check the calendar in the morning. No, I’ll just have that conversation tomorrow. Should I wake him now? What if I forget? Does he know how much he means to me? I truly hope so.
Then there’s my daughter and her social struggles. There always seems to be something going on. Suddenly, I’m upset with one of her friends whom I don’t even know, because she hurt my sweet, sensitive girl. But I remind myself that I must allow her to navigate these challenges independently. I’ll just check in with her tomorrow.
Am I doing right by them? Do they have what they need for school? I feel guilty for opting for those budget-friendly lunchboxes instead of the ones they desired. Sure, I did splurge on those pricey sneakers, so they should be grateful, right? Am I spoiling them? Are they unappreciative? I shouldn’t be so lenient. Perhaps I need to stand my ground more firmly while also learning to ease up a bit.
Then there’s the guilt about not spending enough time with the dogs. They deserve love and attention too, and I’m always rushing from one task to another. Poor pups.
I let my kids have too much screen time. I’m the “strict mom,” denying most sleepovers because I don’t know the parents well. And I make them do chores—am I asking too much of them? Should I relax about sleepovers?
I feel awful for not having responded to my friend’s lunch invitation; surely, she’s frustrated with me and may decide to cut ties. And what’s that sensation on my forehead? Oh, just a strand of hair falling out because I’m aging faster than I care to admit. I’ll have to look up a shampoo for that tomorrow.
Oh great, I’m already stressing about tomorrow. It’s almost 11 p.m.; if I could only fall asleep now, I might get a solid seven hours. But sleep eludes me, leaving me to stew in my worries for yet another few hours before dragging myself out of bed in the morning.
The cycle continues. As darkness falls, worries flood in fiercely. Is it that we’ve conditioned ourselves to envision the worst outcomes in solitude? Does reason just vanish after 10 p.m.?
I’m uncertain what happens to mothers’ minds at night. Perhaps they’re trying to catch up after being on autopilot all day. When the chance to unwind finally arrives, we’ve forgotten how to do so, and instead, we construct these elaborate worst-case scenarios until our bodies resist rest, overwhelmed by our racing thoughts.
It’s evident that the more we worry, the less we sleep, and the more sleep-deprived we become, the more anxious we feel. This creates a relentless cycle, one that seems to accompany the role of motherhood.
I wish I had answers. I wish I could reveal how to silence those nighttime monsters that want to wreak havoc in our minds, but I honestly don’t know how to quiet them.
What I do know is that my children are worth every sleepless night and moment of anxiety, and so are yours. Your constant worry for those you love is a testament to your commitment as a parent. So, the next time you find yourself awake, fretting over bills or whether your kids are eating enough vegetables or if you should have confronted that rude passerby who judged your parenting, remember that you are enough. Give yourself permission to take a break.
Then close your eyes and tell yourself that you can save those worries for tomorrow night. Because let’s be honest—we both know you will.
Summary
This reflective piece captures the struggles of motherhood, where sleepless nights are often filled with anxiety and worries about children, relationships, and self-worth. It emphasizes the importance of recognizing that these feelings are part of being a devoted parent and encourages mothers to find solace in their love for their children, reminding them to take a breath and give themselves grace.