I am 54 years old. Right now, my body is navigating the exhausting, unpredictable storm of menopause, while my home is filled with the chaotic energy of two teenagers.
Decades ago, I made the choice to leave my homeland, packing my entire life into suitcases to build a future here. Along the way, I met the man who became my husband. We chose to start a family, but we had absolutely no idea how hard that choice would be. We did it entirely alone. There was no one to help…there were no grandmothers to hold the babies, no siblings to offer advice, and no parents to lean on. Just the two of us, completely alone, also we had both worked full-time. We survived but survival takes a devastating toll.
Over the years, my bone-deep exhaustion turned into a sharp, constant frustration. I found myself snapping and angry all the time at the very people I loved most. And every single time I reacted, a suffocating wave of guilt would follow.
Eventually, my mental health broke under the weight. I didn’t hide from it. I fought for myself—I tried therapy, I sought medical consultations, and I took medication. Some days the fog lifts a little, but most days it is still a massive uphill battle.
I am sharing my vulnerability with you today because we live in a world that expects mothers to be superheroes, without ever giving us a cape.
Thank you