(Some kinds of exhaustion can’t be fixed with rest)
“You look tired.” It’s a phrase I’ve heard quite a few times lately. And it’s true. Sometimes I am. Then comes the second part: “You could go away for a few days. Without the kids. Their dad can stay with them.”
My children’s father says this to me often. I’ve heard it from other people too. And I know they mean well. I really do. Because they see that I’m tired. Sad sometimes. Overwhelmed at others. And they want to help. But there’s something about this idea that has never made much sense to me.
Right now, my children see their dad almost every day. My oldest sleeps at his house on Mondays. On Tuesdays they have dinner together at his place. On Wednesdays we all have dinner together at mine. At weekends we usually split the days between us. And during the week we still see each other almost daily because of the school runs.
But the truth is that the children still spend most of their time with me. They are very young. And this rhythm has been working well for them. At least for now.
Even so, whenever people see me looking more tired, I hear things like:
“Go away for a few days. I’ll stay with them.”
“Leave them with their dad and go enjoy yourself.”
And I understand the logic. Because for other people, and for their dad for example, maybe that has helped. Since the separation, he has taken a few trips. Some for work. Some for leisure. With friends. With family. And I believe it did him good. That he rested. That he had space to breathe.
But I don’t feel the same way. And sometimes I think this is one of the hardest things to explain. Because yes, I am tired. But I’m not tired of my children. They were never the problem. My exhaustion doesn’t come from the hugs. Or the kisses. Or the games. Or bedtime stories. Or the endless conversations about Ancient Egypt. Or the requests for cuddles. Or the little hands reaching for me in the middle of the night.
My exhaustion comes from everything else. It comes from carrying a thousand and one things that used to be shared between two people. It comes from the decisions. The bills. The groceries. The laundry. The meals. The paperwork. The requests from school. The worries. The logistics. The work. The house. The fears. The uncertainty. The grief.
Because some days I’m not just dealing with everyday life. I’m also trying to survive the loss of the life I thought I would have. And that is exhausting. Very exhausting. There are several layers of grief happening at the same time. The grief of the relationship. The grief of the family I dreamed of. The grief of the plans I had. The grief of the future I imagined.
And all of this happens while I continue making lunches, answering emails, booking appointments, doing laundry, and showing up for my children every single day.
So, no. Right now, I don’t dream about spending a week without them. In fact, I think I would feel worse. Maybe I would get some physical rest. But emotionally, I’m almost certain I would come back even more exhausted. Because they are where I find most of the peace I still have. They are where I find meaning on the hardest days. They are the reason I get up when I don’t feel like it. The reason I keep going when I no longer know how. The reason I smile when I feel like crying.
And that’s why there’s something I sometimes feel like saying when people tell me to go away for a week. I don’t need someone to take my children. I need someone to help me carry everything else. The laundry. The meals. The groceries. The logistics. The paperwork. All the invisible things no one sees. Because maybe the problem was never spending too much time with my children. Maybe the problem is carrying too much weight on my own. And those are two very different things.
Some kinds of exhaustion can’t be fixed with a holiday. They are eased by support. By presence. By real help. By someone who, instead of saying, “Go and get some rest,” shows up and carries a little of what we’re carrying. And maybe that’s what so many separated mothers and fathers are trying to explain.
We don’t need a vacation from our children. We need to stop carrying the whole world on our shoulders.
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