"The Shift Never Ends"
Twenty-four hours. That’s how long I’ve been awake.
The hospital lights have burned holes into my eyes, and every step feels like it’s echoing through hollow bones. The last patient I saw today was still in my head when I walked out the sliding doors — their breathing labored, their family crying. I carried that with me all the way home. I always do. But stepping through my own front door doesn’t mean the shift is over. It just means the uniform changes.
There are little feet running toward me, voices calling Mom! with excitement that makes my chest ache in both the best and worst ways. I want to scoop them up, hold them tight, tell them how much I love them — and I do — but my body is running on fumes. My mind feels like it’s filled with wet cement. Still, the routine starts. Homework help. Dinner. Baths. Breaking up arguments over toys. Smiling, because they deserve to see a happy face even if mine feels like it’s cracking.
And then there’s my grandparents. They need me too. Grocery runs. Medication refills. Doctor appointments. Listening to their stories even when my own head is screaming for silence. After that? House chores. Laundry that never ends. Floors that never stay clean. Dishes that seem to multiply on their own. And somewhere in there, I’m supposed to “take care of myself.” Eat a meal. Take a shower. Maybe sit down for five minutes. But those minutes are always stolen by someone else’s need.
No one sees the struggle. No one sees that every day I am pouring out more than I have, hoping I won’t run dry. And still, somehow, it’s not enough. The ones closest to me — the people who should be holding me up — sometimes push me down instead. Comments slip out like knives: You’re not doing enough. You’re doing it wrong. Other people have it worse. They don’t see that I’m already bleeding inside from trying to be everything for everyone.
I hate the quiet envy that bubbles up when I see people who have help, who have a partner who takes half the load, who have a life that doesn’t feel like a constant uphill battle. I hate feeling bitter. But I also hate feeling like my children’s childhood is being built on a foundation of my exhaustion.
Every night ends the same way: me in the dark, tears sliding down silently so the kids don’t hear. Hatred for myself curling in my stomach. The weight of my failures pressing down until I can hardly breathe.
And yet… I keep going. Not because I’m strong — but because they’re my kids. And they deserve a mother who hangs on, even when she’s drowning.
