People keep asking me how I am.
Some ask with concern, some with curiosity, and some with judgment already tucked behind their words. They’ve watched my decisions from the outside, weighing them, measuring them, forming opinions about a life they don’t live. And yet, alongside that noise, there have been hands that reached out, people who held me up when I felt like I might fold. Both exist at the same time—the judgment and the kindness—and somehow, I’ve learned to carry them together.
But the question stays the same: Are you coping?
I am.
Just not in the neat, easy way people expect.
Some days feel light. Effortless, even. The kind of days where laughter comes easily, where everything flows, where it feels like nothing can touch us. On those days, I almost forget how heavy things can get.
And then there are the other days.
The days that start out ordinary and unravel without warning. A normal afternoon turns into panic—a mom gripping a steering wheel, fighting tears, trying not to speed while her mind races faster than the car ever could. Every worst-case scenario flashes through her head as she drives to the hospital, heart pounding, heart sitting heavy in her chest. Because her baby boy, for reasons she’ll never quite understand, seems to love that place too well.
And then… it’s over.
Just like that.
The crisis passes, the world doesn’t stop, and there’s no time to fall apart. You’re expected to tuck the fear away, to act like you didn’t just imagine losing everything. So you do what moms do—you push it down, you steady yourself, and you keep going.
Because there are still little people who need you.
You move on to the next thing. You feed them, bathe them, get them ready for bed. You become the referee, the peacemaker, the broken record—please stop fighting… can you not do that… take it down a notch… stop antagonising each other. The chaos doesn’t pause just because your heart is tired.
And just when you think you’ve made it through the day, that you’ve handled it, that you can finally breathe—life adds a little more.
One child is crying from a toothache. Another is scared of the dark. Another just needs to be close, to feel safe, to feel you there.
And somehow, without even planning it, you find yourself lying on a mattress on the floor.
Not because it’s comfortable. Not because it was the plan. But because that’s where they need you.
And then, finally… quiet.
They’re asleep.
Content. Safe. Thriving.
In that moment, everything else fades—the fear, the exhaustion, the judgment, the doubt. Because at the end of it all, that’s what matters.
So when people ask me how I’m doing, this is the answer:
I’m trying my best.
And as long as my children go to bed each night feeling safe, loved, and okay—then I know, without a doubt, that I’m doing everything right.
