18/05/2025
We’re both parents.
A couple. A mother and a father.
But the truth is...
We didn’t become parents the same way.
He went back to work.
I stayed home.
I left my job.
Left my independence.
Left the version of me that once felt complete.
He still earns.
I live off what’s given.
Sometimes, there's nothing left for myself.
He goes out.
He gets to dress up, laugh, and feel human.
Me?
I have to ask permission first.
“Who’s watching the baby?”
As if taking a breath for myself is selfish.
He sleeps through the night.
I’m up in the dark.
Nursing, rocking, shushing,
and sometimes…
crying quietly so no one hears.
Meals are prepared and served for him.
I prepare and serve my own - if I even get the chance to eat.
He showers in peace.
I rush through mine,
because there are tiny hands knocking, calling, needing me before I even rinse the shampoo.
He finishes work and rests.
Me?
I don’t clock out.
There is no “off duty.”
Always alert. Always needed.
Mother. Wife. Cook. Cleaner. Therapist. Everything.
And people still say,
“You’re just at home?”
He didn’t grow the baby inside his body.
Didn’t feel the kicks that took his breath away or the contractions that nearly broke me.
He didn’t bleed, tear, or scream into the pillow.
He didn’t look in the mirror and wonder -
Who is this tired woman staring back at me?
No.
We are not equal.
This isn’t blame.
It’s just the truth.
We didn’t carry the same weight into parenthood.
Now I understand mothers.
The ones I once judged.
“The stay-at-home moms.”
The “spoiled wives.”
The “women who have it easy.”
Now I know.
They are the quiet warriors holding homes together.
The ones who give up everything -
so their children can have everything.
So if you know a mother -
Ask her how she’s doing.
Really ask.
Then listen. Hold space for her.
Because most of us won’t say we’re tired.
We won’t say we’re hurting.
We won’t ask for help.
We’ll just keep going…
Until one day, there’s nothing left to give.
And no strength left
to piece ourselves back together.
©️✍🏻 Maretism
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