Some days feel like the weight of the world is pressing down, making it hard to breathe. Other days, that weight turns into seasons with long stretches of time where I am not thriving, only surviving. Right now, I’m living through one of those seasons.

The alarm rings out before dawn, sharp and insistent. My body feels heavy, my mind already scattered with the day’s demands, but I rise anyway. Tiredness isn’t just in my muscles; it has settled deep in my bones, in my spirit. The house is still quiet, and in that hush, I steal a few precious moments for myself, a brief pause before the chaos begins.

Morning rushes in like a storm. Bags need packing, socks go missing, a small nose requires wiping, and a meals is prepared with hope but hardly eaten. I coax my child into shoes, wipe away frustrated tears and juggle a mental checklist that includes deadlines, bills, groceries, and that elusive thing called patience.

Workdays blur into each other, each one beginning with a late arrival and the familiar feeling of distraction. Meetings become a game of pretending to focus while my mind drifts to a sick child at home or frets over whether I forgot to pay the electricity bill. Notes get lost, appointments overlap, and frustration wells up until I find myself seeking solace in the quiet of a bathroom stall, where tears flow freely and unseen.

Motherhood doesn’t come with a pause button. No matter how overwhelming the days feel, no matter how tired I am, the responsibilities continue. A child needs nurturing, a spouse needs companionship, friends and family need connection, and a job demands attention. The weight of these roles doesn’t lighten with exhaustion; it grows heavier with guilt and the feeling of falling short.

And still, I carry on.

At the center of it all stands this little person, my child, who means more to me than anything else in the world. Every smile, every giggle, every “I love you, Mommy” fuels a resilience I didn’t know I had. Yet, everything else still matters too. Deadlines still loom, relationships still require tending, and the inner voice whispering “Am I enough?” grows louder.

These days feel like trudging through thick mud. Progress is slow, messy, and exhausting. I snap at those I love, my patience worn thin. Some mornings, I wake up wondering how I’ll make it through the day. But then I do. I show up.

For my child. For my family. For the version of myself I’m trying to hold onto amidst the noise and the chaos.

In the middle of the mess, I’ve begun to understand something I hadn’t before. Even when I’m not at my best, even when I’m merely surviving, I am still moving forward. Those little moments – whispered bedtime stories, quiet forehead kisses, tired but genuine “I love yous” – they count. They build memories. They build resilience. They build love.

I used to believe that thriving was the only measure of success. I thought I had to be perfect, to juggle everything flawlessly. But I see now that simply showing up, even messy, exhausted, and imperfect, is a form of strength too. Survival isn’t failure. It’s proof that even when life feels unbearably hard, I’m still here, still fighting.

To anyone else caught in this same season, I want you to hear this. You are not alone. You’re not invisible, and you are most certainly not failing. The world may not see the quiet battles you fight each day such as the decision to get out of bed, the patience you summon when your child throws a tantrum and the resilience you display when you hold yourself together despite wanting to fall apart. But I see you.

You’re doing something extraordinary. You’re keeping a little human safe and loved while carrying the weight of everything else. You’re navigating sleepless nights, unrelenting schedules, emotional strain, and the invisible labour that no one else notices. That’s not weakness. That’s strength in its purest form.

This isn’t a season of thriving. It’s a season of showing up, of survival, and of resilience. It’s the season of whispered prayers in the dark, of tired hands holding onto hope, and of love that runs deeper than exhaustion.

Maybe one day I’ll look back on this season and marvel at how I made it through. I’ll remember the moments when I thought I couldn’t go on, and yet I did. I’ll remember the days when my child’s laughter felt like the sun breaking through the clouds and the nights when I held her close and felt her steady breathing soothe my racing heart.

Until then, I’ll keep moving forward, one step, one breath, and one day at a time.

I’m not thriving. Not yet. But I’m still here.

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