It usually hits around 7:46 p.m.

The dishwasher’s still full from breakfast. The toddler’s crying because her sock “feels weird.” My husband is scrolling his phone in the one clean corner of the house. And I’m elbow-deep in dinner dishes wondering how I got here.

There are days I fantasize about walking out the front door and just… disappearing for a while. Not forever. Just long enough to remember who I was before the sticky fingers and lost pacifiers and bills and laundry that somehow multiplies at night.

Some nights, I linger a little too long by the car, keys in hand, heart pounding.

But I always come back in. I always put the keys down.

Because every time I imagine leaving, I also picture who would fill the space I left behind.

Who would remember that our youngest can’t stand peanut butter on Tuesdays? Who would hum the right tune to help the baby sleep? Who else could decode our oldest’s quiet tears after a tough day?

And when I sit with that—really sit with that—I realize something else. They know me too. In ways no one else ever has.

Even when I feel like I’ve completely lost myself, I am still the sun in their tiny solar system. Crooked ponytails and mismatched socks and sticky kisses… I’m the constant in all of it.

But I won’t lie. The weight of being “the constant” sometimes feels unbearable.

Last Thursday, I had a full-blown panic attack in the bathroom. I locked the door, turned on the faucet to drown out the sound, and slid down the cold tile wall just to breathe.

No one knocked. No one asked where I was. And for a few minutes, I hated that. But then I also… loved it.

Because for those five minutes, I didn’t belong to anyone but myself.

I scrolled through photos on my phone—ones from years ago. Back when my hair was always styled, and brunch was a regular thing, not just a word I heard in TV shows. There was a picture of me at the beach, laughing so hard my whole body was tilted back. I stared at it until my vision blurred.

I missed her.

Not because she looked different, though she did. But because she felt different. She was spontaneous and fun and always had a plan for the weekend. Now, I plan naps and laundry cycles and snacks in Tupperware.

And yet, that night, after I calmed down and walked back into the chaos, my three-year-old ran up to me, arms stretched high. “Mama, I missed you,” she said, even though I’d only been gone ten minutes.

That broke me in the best way.

Because maybe the girl in that beach photo still exists. Maybe she’s just… paused. Maybe she’s not gone—just patiently waiting for her season to return.

Sometimes, when I pick up my husband’s socks from under the couch for the millionth time, I resent him. And then I remember: he’s exhausted too. He’s overwhelmed too. And he’s not scrolling to ignore me—he’s scrolling to escape just like I want to.

We’re both surviving the same storm in different ways.

Marriage with kids isn’t romance and date nights and flowers. It’s tag-teaming puke cleanup at 3 a.m. and apologizing even when you don’t feel like it and holding hands during preschool graduations while trying not to cry.

It’s messy and loud and repetitive and beautiful in the quietest moments.

Like when I check on the kids after they fall asleep and find them tangled together like puppies, breathing in unison. Or when my husband absentmindedly kisses my forehead while passing by with a load of laundry.

Those are the sparks. Not fireworks—but tiny flickers that still keep the fire alive.

Still, I won’t sugarcoat it. There are days when I daydream about hotel rooms with crisp white sheets and room service. About sleeping in and not being responsible for anyone’s mood or meals or meltdowns.

Once, I even booked a hotel for a night. Told my husband I needed 24 hours alone. He blinked but didn’t argue. Just nodded and said, “Do what you need. We’ll be fine.”

And they were.

But when I came back the next evening, the moment I walked in, my middle child burst into tears. “I missed your smell,” she said between hiccups.

I cried too. Because I missed their noise.

Even though they drive me crazy. Even though I crave silence. I also crave the chaos because it’s ours. It’s mine.

A friend of mine once said, “Motherhood is like being the only one who knows the Wi-Fi password.”

That hit me.

Because no one really knows how much I do to keep everything connected. Emotionally, physically, mentally. No one sees the invisible lists I carry in my head every day.

Snacks to pack. Permission slips to sign. Doctor appointments. Favorite stuffed animals. Nightlights. Loose teeth. Birthday gifts. Groceries. Bills.

It’s endless. And sometimes, thankless.

Last Christmas, I forgot to get a present for myself. Everyone had something to unwrap but me. I laughed it off, said it didn’t matter. But it did. Because I mattered too.

That was the night I decided to start showing up for myself again.

Not in big ways—at least not yet. But in tiny, rebellious acts of self-kindness.

Like painting my nails at midnight while listening to old love songs. Or taking a longer route home just to hear the end of a podcast. Or saying “no” to that extra committee I didn’t want to join.

I even started journaling again.

One night, I wrote, “I love my kids. But I want more than survival. I want joy.”

It felt honest. Freeing. Like telling the truth to someone I trust.

And slowly, joy started creeping back in. In spilled milk giggles. In early morning cuddles. In dancing with my kids in the kitchen to old pop songs.

Not every day. Not even most days. But more than before.

I also started therapy. At first, I felt guilty—like I was weak for needing help. But it’s been the most empowering thing I’ve ever done.

I’ve learned to say things like, “I’m overwhelmed,” instead of snapping at everyone. I’ve learned to ask for help instead of waiting to explode.

And you know what? People step up. My husband started making breakfast on Sundays. My mom offers to babysit more. My oldest started packing her own lunch some mornings.

Turns out, I didn’t have to carry everything alone. I just never let it drop.

Here’s the twist I didn’t see coming.

A few months ago, I bumped into an old friend at the grocery store. We hadn’t talked in years, but we hugged and stood there catching up by the cereal aisle.

She looked at my messy bun, the cart full of diapers and cereal, and said, “You’re doing it. You always wanted to be a mom, remember?”

I had forgotten that.

Back in college, I used to say I wanted four kids and a chaotic house and a partner who made me laugh. And here I was. Living that exact dream—only now, I was too tired to recognize it.

We hugged again, and I cried in the car.

Because somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing my life as the dream it once was. And started seeing it as a list of things to survive.

But since that day, I’ve tried to see it differently.

I don’t always succeed. There are still nights I stand by the car, wondering if I could just drive to nowhere and be still.

But then I hear a sleepy “Mama?” from the upstairs hallway. Or I catch the way my husband looks at me when I’m not paying attention. And I remember.

This isn’t prison. It’s purpose.

Messy, imperfect, exhausting purpose.

And yes, sometimes I want to leave.

But I never do.

Because love isn’t about staying when it’s easy. It’s about staying when it’s hard. It’s about choosing the same people every day, even when the laundry’s endless and the conversations are scattered and your body doesn’t feel like your own.

So to every mom standing by the car with keys in hand—wondering if anyone would notice if you slipped away for a while—I see you.

You’re not alone.

And maybe, just maybe, the person you miss is still there. Just underneath the grocery lists and bedtimes and half-drunk coffee cups.

Give her some space. Some grace. Some time.

She’s worth waiting for.

And when she re-emerges—fierce and soft and whole—you’ll know that staying wasn’t weakness.

It was love in its bravest form.

If this story touched you, made you feel seen, or reminded you of someone you care about—share it. Like it. Pass it on.

Because sometimes, all we need is a little reminder:

We’re not alone in this. And we’re doing better than we think.