Mental health is often misunderstood or overlooked, particularly when it comes to the demands of everyday life. As parents, partners, and individuals, we carry a variety of emotional burdens that don't always get the attention they deserve. Mental health isn’t just about big diagnoses or dramatic events—it’s also about how we navigate the smaller, daily struggles: the moments when we feel unsupported, unseen, or overwhelmed.
In this post, I want to share a personal story. It’s a reflection on a moment in my life where the weight of trying to juggle everything—study, motherhood, and maintaining relationships—left me feeling emotionally exhausted. I hope that by sharing this experience, it can shed light on the complexities of mental health that many of us face, even in seemingly ordinary circumstances.
It’s easy to think that mental health challenges are only about moments of crisis, but sometimes it’s the cumulative effect of daily stresses and the emotional isolation that can have the most profound impact. In my story, I talk about how these small, often unseen moments of neglect or lack of support—whether it’s from a partner, family, or even ourselves—can weigh heavily on our mental well-being. It’s not always obvious to the outside world, but it can leave us feeling drained, anxious, and disconnected.
If you’ve ever found yourself feeling like you’re doing it all alone, even when you’re surrounded by others, I want you to know you’re not alone. This post is for those who feel overwhelmed by the mental load, who question their worth because of the quiet moments when they feel unsupported, and who need a reminder that their mental health matters too.
Another day of December
That morning, our daughter spent the day with her grandparents after they graciously offered to take care of her so I could focus on my studies. Later in the afternoon, they called, saying that Adelyn wanted to come home because she “missed Mom and Dad.” Of course, we went to pick her up—I could use a break too. We don’t get to be home with her as often as we’d like, and I know it’s hard for her. She’s at that age where she craves attention and is old enough to sense when things aren’t quite right.
When we arrived home, it didn’t take long for Adelyn to ask for me to play with her. Since I hadn’t spent much time with her that day, I agreed without hesitation. But what was he doing? Lying on the couch, scrolling through his phone, “searching for a movie to distract Ady.” It was the easiest thing in the world to put on a show, but it wasn’t what she needed. She wanted attention.
A few minutes later, in an effort to coax him into engaging with her, Adelyn handed him a toy phone and pretended to make a call. In that brief moment, he managed to convince her to watch the movie. She came back to me and asked, “Mom, will you watch the movie with me?”
I explained that I needed to study, and that it would be fine for her to watch it with Daddy. But that wasn’t good enough. She wanted both of us there. It broke my heart when she started offering suggestions—how I could study while sitting with her, how I could stay in the room and still get my work done. She begged me not to leave, and as I watched her little face crumple in disappointment and tears started to build up, I felt a pang of guilt. As her mother, I couldn’t help but feel I was failing her.
So, I grabbed my tablet and walked to the living room to sit with her. And yet, as I settled onto the couch, he was still on his phone, doing nothing. That was the tipping point for me. I said, “What are you doing? This is exactly what I mean. You don’t make any effort to help with her, or support me in any way.” His response was exactly what I expected: defensive, dismissive, and shifting the blame.
“This is what you’re teaching her,” he said, “When she cries, you run to her.”
But what was he doing? Nothing. He was sprawled on the couch, oblivious to his daughter’s needs, scrolling through his phone, disengaged from everything happening around him.
I sat there, trying to be present for our daughter, but growing more frustrated by the second. A few moments later, he stopped the movie and turned to me. “If you need to go study, just go,” he yelled, his tone flat. “If you freaking need to leave the house, do it. Go study.”
When Adelyn asked him “why are you yelling at mommy” and the movie had stopped, his response was cold. “We won’t watch it until your mom leaves.” And when she began to cry, he added, “This is what you’re teaching her,” before returning to his phone, lying back on the couch like nothing had happened.
I couldn’t help but feel like I was drowning in frustration. Am I overthinking all of this? Or is it just that everything feels wrong?
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