The woman who carries it all

She is the woman who wakes up before the world does.

Not because she wants to.

Because she has to.

The alarm goes off, but she’s already half-awake — mind racing through the mental checklist that never ends. Lunches. Uniforms. Bills. Work emails. Laundry. The constant calculation of time, energy, money.

She moves through mornings like muscle memory.

Getting the children ready, brushing hair, finding lost shoes, answering questions while stirring cereal and trying to look like someone who isn’t already exhausted.

Then she goes to work.

Full time.

Showing up, performing, smiling politely, meeting deadlines — as if she isn’t carrying an entire life on her shoulders outside of that office or classroom or job role.

And when the day ends, it doesn’t really end.

Because the second shift begins.

Home. Dinner. Homework. Baths. Cleaning. Tidying up the mess that somehow appears faster than it can ever be cleared away.

And somewhere in between, she tries to remember herself.

A glass of water. A deep breath. Maybe a workout if she can find the strength. Maybe five minutes of silence if the house ever allows it.

Personal wellbeing becomes another task on the list.

Not joy.

Not peace.

Just something else she’s failing to do properly.

And then there’s money.

Always money.

The quiet fear that sits under everything.

The budgeting, the worrying, the constant stretching of what isn’t enough. The pressure of keeping it all together, of making sure the children never feel the cracks.

She is the woman who holds everything.

And for so long, she believed she was supposed to.


—

And Then… She Becomes the Woman Starting Over

Not by choice.

Not because she planned it.

But because life changed.

Because love became loss.

Because partnership became absence.

Because suddenly she is doing it all…

Alone.

Now she is the single mum.

Starting over in a world that feels unfamiliar.

A world where the house is quieter in the wrong way.

Where the evenings feel heavier.

Where the future she once pictured has vanished, and she’s left standing in the aftermath, asking herself questions that have no answers.

How did I get here?

How do I do this alone?

How do I carry pain and still pack lunchboxes?

How do I grieve and still show up for parents’ evenings and school runs?

How do I keep going when I feel like I’m breaking?


—

Living With Pain Behind the Everyday

Single motherhood isn’t just practical.

It’s emotional.

It’s waking up with anxiety in your chest before your feet even touch the floor.

It’s smiling for your children while your heart is quietly grieving.

It’s doing bedtime stories with a lump in your throat.

It’s feeling strong for everyone else while feeling completely undone inside.

It’s the loneliness that creeps in after the lights go out.

The silence where a life once existed.

The grief of what was.

The grief of what should have been.

The grief of the woman you were before the hurt.


—

She Is Still Here

And yet…

She is still here.

Still getting up.

Still mothering.

Still working.

Still trying.

Even through the fog of anxiety.

Even through the sharpness of loss.

Even when her world feels like it’s made of broken pieces.

She is rebuilding in real time.

Not perfectly.

Not gracefully.

But bravely.

Because starting over isn’t a fresh beginning with excitement and hope straight away.

Sometimes starting over looks like survival.

Sometimes it looks like tears in the kitchen.

Sometimes it looks like showing up when you feel empty.

Sometimes it looks like being the woman who carries pain…

And still carries her children, her home, her life.

One day at a time.


—

To the Woman Living This

You are not weak because you are hurting.

You are not failing because you feel lost.

You are human.

You are grieving.

You are adjusting to a life you didn’t ask for.

And the fact that you are still standing — even in pieces — is proof of a strength that most people will never understand.

You are not just starting over.

You are becoming.

Slowly.

Painfully.

But truly.