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There’s a quiet, complicated moment in motherhood where your child is hurting and doesn’t know what to do with their pain—so it ends up aimed at you.

My daughter asked what was for dinner. I said I was too tired to cook.

She got upset. Said it like I didn’t care.

Then circled back and said, “Why are you being so nice when I’m being such a jerk?”

It stopped me in my tracks.

Because she knew. And I froze.

Here I am, recovering from Lyme disease, low on energy, doing my best to stay grounded in a body that’s healing.

And still, I found myself standing at the stove a few minutes later, heating up rice and making her a salad—because the guilt of not doing it felt heavier than my own fatigue.

That’s when it hit me:

Over-functioning is a quiet kind of self-abandonment.

It looks like kindness. It wears the face of the “good mom.”

But underneath, it’s me betraying my own limit to preserve someone else’s comfort.

This is the tender work of healing: noticing when I cross my own boundary, and gently returning to myself.

It’s not just about parenting. It’s in all of it.

The friend who rolls his eyes when I say “everything is energy” because it’s not “how quantum physics really works.”

The part of me that wants to argue, prove myself, translate it into a language he’ll respect.

That’s performance again. That’s me leaving myself behind.

And I’m done with that.

So now, I’m choosing this instead:

>> I’m not yelling.

>> I’m not fixing.

>> I’m letting myself rest, even when others don’t understand.

Because I’m learning how to stay.

Not in conflict.

Not in exhaustion.

But with myself.

If you’re tired right now, ask yourself:

Am I just worn out from the day?

Or is part of me still over-performing to earn love or avoid guilt?

One is physical.

The other is soul-deep.

And it’s okay to lay that burden down.

I’m learning how.

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