I don’t always recognize overwhelm right away. It doesn’t crash in like a wave—it builds slowly, a rising tide I keep telling myself I can handle. I stay busy, keep moving, keep my head just high enough to breathe. From the outside, it probably looks like I’m doing fine. However, from the inside, it feels like I’m constantly adjusting, recalibrating, learning how to float without panicking.
There are moments when it feels like I’m drowning in motherhood, but even then, I’m still here. Still showing up. Still finding ways—small, imperfect ways—to stay above water. I answer the emails and take the next step. I remind myself that struggling doesn’t mean failing; it just means the water is deeper right now.
Drowning doesn’t look like chaos. It looks like functioning. Looks like answering texts hours later without an apology, I don’t have the energy to explain. It looks like nodding while someone talks and realizing I didn’t hear a word because I’m too busy trying to keep my head above water. Every task feels heavier than it should, like I’m moving underwater, slow and strained, burning energy just to reach the shore.
The Reason I Don’t Let Go
My kids are the only reason I don’t just let the water take me. I have this internal drive to be a “present” mother—not just a body in the room, but actually there for them. It’s hard when you’re tired, but seeing their faces light up when I walk in the door is like a sudden shot of oxygen. Those messy “I love yous” and the way they curl into me for snuggles at the end of a brutal day…those are the moments that remind me that even if I feel like a mess inside, to them, I’m perfect. I want them to grow up and be able to say, “My mommy was always there.” That’s the state of mind that keeps me swimming, even when the tide is way over my head.
The “Flip and Float”
When I get too tired to keep moving, I’ve learned how to “flip and float.” It’s basically just
survival—stopping the struggle for a second so I can actually take a breath. In real life, that’s my “micro-break” time. Sometimes it’s just a hot shower where I let the water run over me and block out the noise. But my absolute favorite “float” is that window after the kids are finally asleep. I get to just sit there, eat my favorite snacks, and binge my shows without anyone needing a thing from me. It’s the only time I’m not being pulled in five different directions.
One Stroke at a Time
Looking at the whole gigantic ocean of stuff I have to do is the fastest way to panic. So, I’ve stopped looking at the horizon. I just focus on one small thing I can do right now. I don’t worry about cleaning the whole house—instead, I just chip away at it, one little corner at a time, every day. It makes the load feel a lot lighter, and honestly, it’s a win. Plus, it lets me go to bed feeling like I actually had a successful, productive day instead of just being overwhelmed by what I didn’t get to.
Staying afloat isn’t graceful. It’s not inspiring in the way people like to package survival. It’s listening to your body when it says slow down, letting go of what doesn’t matter, and trusting that you don’t have to swim forever. Tides change. So do seasons. And even when the water feels endless, there is something steady in the act of floating—proof that you’re adapting, that you’re still breathing, that this moment, however heavy, isn’t the whole story.
