Won’t this Roller Coaster stop

Today feels like every kind of high and low rolled into one fragile heartbeat.

There are moments I catch myself staring at my baby in awe—so much love it physically aches. But then, without warning, the ache shifts. And suddenly, I’m drowning in exhaustion so heavy, I can’t even catch my breath.

I wanted this. I love this baby with everything in me. But I didn’t expect the crash after the climb. No one warned me just how isolating it would feel. How being surrounded by people wouldn’t stop the loneliness. How I could be so full of love and still feel completely broken.

Everyone around me seems to have figured it out. The other moms look put together. They’re smiling in photos, posting milestones, making jokes about spit-up like they’re breezing through it. Meanwhile, I consider it a massive victory if I get a full shower without having to sit on the edge of the tub, shaking, because I’m that drained. But I want to feel clean. I want to smell like soap instead of milk. I want to not flinch every time I hear a phantom baby cry the moment I close my eyes.

I’m so tired. Not “a nap would help” tired. But deep, soul-deep tired. The kind that makes my bones ache. And yet, sleep is never peaceful. “Sleep when the baby sleeps” they say. But how can I, when every sound jolts me awake? When the anxiety keeps whispering, Are they breathing? Are they okay?

People ask, “Isn’t the baby sleeping through the night?” And yes, they might be. But I’m not. My body is buzzing with stress. My brain won’t shut down. And my heart is constantly on watch.

What hurts the most is the feeling that I’m disappearing. That people think I don’t care because I haven’t returned a text or made a call. But the truth is—I miss them. I crave connection. I just don’t have the capacity to reach out. I wish someone would notice that. That instead of asking me to let them know if I need something, they’d just show up. Sit with me. Hug me. Fold a load of laundry. Hold my baby so I can cry in the shower without rushing.

I want to be happy. I want to be the mom who makes this look easy. But I’m not. Not right now. And I’m slowly learning that maybe that’s okay.

This is hard. I’m doing my best. I may feel like I’m falling apart—but I’m also still here. Still showing up. Still loving. Still trying.

And for now… maybe that’s enough.

- A Farm Mothers Try

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