Single Mom Burnout: Life Is Different
Single mom burnout. I’ve never been here before.
I’m alone. I’m tired. I’m hanging on by a thread, trying to do everything for everyone and barely keeping my own head above water.
This time, it feels heavier because I don’t have the support I once did. We’re in a new place, a new space, without a village — not for me, not for my youngest. We’re uninsured, and therapy costs $175 a week — something I just can’t afford right now.
And I’m struggling.
I’ve been a mom for almost 18 years. I’ve been a teacher for 15. I know developmentally what kids go through. I know what they need. But none of that makes it easier when it’s your child who’s hurting and you can’t reach them.
Breaking Generational Patterns in Motherhood
About ten years ago, I realized I was repeating patterns I grew up with — patterns of invalidation, of being too harsh, of not celebrating my kids the way they deserved.
I was raised to believe children should be seen and not heard. That I was “too much,” only valuable when I was helping or achieving. I hated that for me, and I promised I would do better for them.
And I have. I’m conscious. I’m intentional. I show up differently.
But right now… it just feels like no matter what I do, I’m wrong.
My son isn’t happy. He says he hates it here. He says he hates his school, that he’s bored, that I ruined his life. And the part that cuts the deepest — he blames me for our family breaking apart.
One of my greatest fears has always been not being good enough for him.
Surviving Divorce, Cancer, and Starting Over as a Single Mom
These past two years have left me hollow.
I found out my husband was cheating. I walked away from my marriage. I survived a hysterectomy and cancer. I sent my oldest off to college. Then I moved states to start over.
I’m surviving, but I’m tired. I smile, but I’m hanging on by a thread.
It’s been loss after loss after loss, and I keep showing up. But some days, it feels like all I do is eat the world’s pain — theirs, his, mine — and I’m just tired of eating shit.
I want filet mignon. I want a glass of champagne. I want a booty rub on a beach in Jamaica. I want a break.
But I can’t.
Right now, I am not only a financial provider, I’m a sounding board. I’m the comfort, who’s going to comfort me?
The Hard Truth About Single Motherhood
These are the kinds of nuances that make motherhood so challenging.
I’m a single mom now, and I hate that for me. I hate that for us. And I know that’s a big part of why these feelings are so heavy.
It’s hard. It’s so hard.
And I’m crying as I write this because there’s so much built up inside of me.
I just want my children — my baby — to be happy. I want him to understand that I made these choices so he can learn the importance of showing up, of how women should be treated, and that I’m not trying to ruin his life even though he feels like I am.
I know eventually it will be okay because I’ve been through this with my first son, and he’s thriving in college now.
But going through it once doesn’t make it easier the second time. Every child is different.
And I just needed to get that out.
What Motherhood Really Looks Like
Because this is what motherhood really looks like sometimes — not the filtered version, not the highlight reel.
It’s the intersection between womanhood and motherhood, where you’re trying to keep everyone else afloat while your own lungs are burning.
And I’m drowning.
But the difference is… I know I’m drowning. I can say it out loud.
To every mother reading this:
We’ve been trained to believe that because we chose motherhood, our feelings don’t matter.
That no matter how exhausted, frustrated, scared, or broken we feel, we’re expected to keep showing up — perfectly, silently, endlessly.
Society doesn’t give us space to breathe. It doesn’t give us permission to grieve the parts of ourselves we lose in the process.
We’re told therapy is enough, or that we should just “vent” to a friend. But sometimes we don’t have access — therapy is too expensive, friends are overwhelmed themselves, or we simply can’t overburden them.
Sometimes we just have to get up and go to work, and even that feels impossible under the weight we carry.
I hate that for us. I truly hate that for us.
But here’s the thing — acknowledging it matters. Naming it matters. Feeling it, fully, honestly, without guilt, is where the healing begins.
The woman drowning in motherhood? She has a right to exist. She has a right to be seen. And she has a right to rise again.
With love,
Treanna
