How do you know when enough is enough?
How do you know when the last straw has finally been pulled, when the cherry lands on top, when the tip of the iceberg is no longer just a warning but the whole frozen weight of everything underneath?
Is it in the strange, split-second moments — like when you’re driving and a car comes straight at you, and for one terrifying flash your mind goes, well, this is it? And then instinct kicks in, and of course you swerve, because what kind of thought even is that? What kind of exhausted, broken, overworked mind reaches that point before panic reminds you that you still want to survive?
How do you know when your mental health has slipped from “I’m just stressed” into something darker — something manic, chaotic, unbearable? When did you become this version of yourself: unhappy, volatile, overthinking everything, picking apart every thought, every choice, every movement, every tiny thing you say or do?
You sit with yourself and psychoanalyse it all. Every reaction. Every mistake. Every feeling.
And what comes back is a flood: disappointment, disgust, rage, hurt, tears.
So many tears.
It feels like crying has become a personality trait, like maybe that’s all people see now. Not the person you used to be, not the softer parts, not the hopeful parts — just the unraveling. Just the breaking.
How do you make yourself happy again when the things that used to help no longer work the way they used to? How do you stop feeling everything so deeply, so heavily, when every emotion lands like an anvil on your chest? How do you stop thinking long enough to actually live? How do you find the energy to do better, to be better, when even getting through the day feels like dragging yourself through wet concrete?
And then there are the thoughts you don’t say out loud.
The terrifying practical ones.
If something happened to me, would my kids be safe? Would everyone be sorted? Would life keep moving?
And maybe that’s the cruelest part — knowing that they probably would be okay. Knowing systems would be put in place, people would step in, things would somehow carry on. Because then the question gets louder, uglier, more painful:
So where do I fit in?
What is the need for me?
When do people start seeing me — not just as a mother, not just as the one who keeps things going, not just as the one who carries everyone else — but as a person they deeply, genuinely love?
Do people ever miss me in the middle of an ordinary day? Do they ever have a bad moment and think, I really need her right now? Do they see something funny or beautiful or ridiculous and think, that is so her? Do they ever wonder how I am? Do they remember the version of me that was lighter to be around? The one who laughed more easily, who felt easier to love?
Would I be missed?
Or would I only be remembered by my worst moments — the breakdowns, the crying, the emotional chaos, the times I lost control of my own heart and mind?
What actually makes me, me, underneath all of this pain?
How do I figure out my worth? My purpose? How do I believe that I am still okay, still lovable, still here for a reason, even when my own mind keeps arguing otherwise?
I don’t have a neat ending for this. I don’t have a lesson wrapped up with a bow. I don’t have a clean answer about healing, or strength, or hope.
I just know that some days the weight of being alive feels heavier than anyone can see.
And maybe, for today, that truth is all I can manage to say.
