u/PublicPlankton7149

She reaches for me
and my body physically cringes.
Before my feet even hit the floor
someone already needs my skin,
my arms,
my milk,
my patience.
And I don’t want to give it.
That’s the part nobody says out loud.
Sometimes I look at this tiny person I made
and all I can think is
please stop touching me.
Please stop crying.
Please let me exist for five damn minutes
without someone needing something from me.
I am so tired
it feels violent.
Like my bones are buzzing with it.
Like one more whine, one more pull on my shirt,
might crack something open inside me.
All I want is rest.
Real rest.
Not sleeping with one ear open
or sitting down long enough to scroll my phone
before somebody cries again.
I want to not be needed.
Just for a minute.
I want my body back.
I want my mind back.
I want to stop feeling guilty
for fantasizing about disappearing into silence.
But she reaches for me
like I am the whole world.
And somehow I still pick her up
even while my heart and body are screaming
that I have nothing left to give.

She reaches for me
and my body physically cringes.
Before my feet even hit the floor
someone already needs my skin,
my arms,
my milk,
my patience.
And I don’t want to give it.
That’s the part nobody says out loud.
Sometimes I look at this tiny person I made
and all I can think is
please stop touching me.
Please stop crying.
Please let me exist for five damn minutes
without someone needing something from me.
I am so tired
it feels violent.
Like my bones are buzzing with it.
Like one more whine, one more pull on my shirt,
might crack something open inside me.
All I want is rest.
Real rest.
Not sleeping with one ear open
or sitting down long enough to scroll my phone
before somebody cries again.
I want to not be needed.
Just for a minute.
I want my body back.
I want my mind back.
I want to stop feeling guilty
for fantasizing about disappearing into silence.
But she reaches for me
like I am the whole world.
And somehow I still pick her up
even while my heart and body are screaming
that I have nothing left to give.

On days like today, I need my mom.
I need the kind of break only she could give,
the kind where someone else carries the weight
for just a little while
so I can unclench my jaw
and remember how to breathe.
The exhaustion pulls at me like deep water,
dragging me somewhere dark,
somewhere I’m scared I won’t return from.
And all I can think is
I want my mom.
Not the polished version people speak of,
not the holiday memories or framed photographs.
Just her.
Her voice saying, “Come here, baby.”
Her hands taking the crying child from mine.
Her seeing the hurt in my eyes
without making me explain it first.
Because some grief never grows up.
Some daughters keep reaching back
long after they learn no one is reaching for them.
And on the hardest days,
when the house is loud
and my heart feels impossibly tired,
I still ache for the one place
I was supposed to be able to fall apart safely.
On days like today,
I don’t need advice.
I don’t need strength.
I just need my mom.

On days like today, I need my mom.
I need the kind of break only she could give,
the kind where someone else carries the weight
for just a little while
so I can unclench my jaw
and remember how to breathe.
The exhaustion pulls at me like deep water,
dragging me somewhere dark,
somewhere I’m scared I won’t return from.
And all I can think is
I want my mom.
Not the polished version people speak of,
not the holiday memories or framed photographs.
Just her.
Her voice saying, “Come here, baby.”
Her hands taking the crying child from mine.
Her seeing the hurt in my eyes
without making me explain it first.
Because some grief never grows up.
Some daughters keep reaching back
long after they learn no one is reaching for them.
And on the hardest days,
when the house is loud
and my heart feels impossibly tired,
I still ache for the one place
I was supposed to be able to fall apart safely.
On days like today,
I don’t need advice.
I don’t need strength.
I just need my mom.

It wasn’t a bad day,
and maybe that’s what makes it harder to explain.
No slammed doors.
No cruel words.
No forgetting completely.
Just the quiet ache
of hoping to feel seen
and realizing you mostly disappeared
inside the doing of it all.
The baby still needed naps,
the kitchen still needed hands,
dinner still waited on the stove
like it always does.
And while the world posted flowers
and burnt toast breakfasts
and little scribbled cards in crayon,
I folded tiny clothes
and wiped tiny faces
and told myself not to be sad
about something so small.
Because love was there.
Of course it was there.
Sticky hands reaching for me,
little arms that only settle
against my chest.
But somewhere between
washing dishes
and reheating my coffee again,
I mourned the version of the day
where someone noticed
how tired I’ve been.
Where someone said,
“Sit down.
Let me carry this today.”
Instead, I mothered through Mother’s Day too.
Softly. Quietly.
Without ceremony.
And maybe that’s the secret grief of motherhood —
not being unloved,
just being so depended on
that no one remembers
to hold you for a moment too.

IIt wasn’t a bad day,
and maybe that’s what makes it harder to explain.
No slammed doors.
No cruel words.
No forgetting completely.
Just the quiet ache
of hoping to feel seen
and realizing you mostly disappeared
inside the doing of it all.
The baby still needed naps,
the kitchen still needed hands,
dinner still waited on the stove
like it always does.
And while the world posted flowers
and burnt toast breakfasts
and little scribbled cards in crayon,
I folded tiny clothes
and wiped tiny faces
and told myself not to be sad
about something so small.
Because love was there.
Of course it was there.
Sticky hands reaching for me,
little arms that only settle
against my chest.
But somewhere between
washing dishes
and reheating my coffee again,
I mourned the version of the day
where someone noticed
how tired I’ve been.
Where someone said,
“Sit down.
Let me carry this today.”
Instead, I mothered through Mother’s Day too.
Softly. Quietly.
Without ceremony.
And maybe that’s the secret grief of motherhood —
not being unloved,
just being so depended on
that no one remembers
to hold you for a moment too.

There is a scream
that never makes it past my teeth,
it lives behind my ribs—
pressed thin,
breathing shallow,
learning how to be quiet.
The house is dark
in that heavy, sacred way,
where even the clock
ticks softer
like it knows
someone is barely holding on.
Hot tears slip sideways
into my ears,
cool against the pillow
that hasn’t known rest—
not really.
You are awake again.
Your cry is small
but it fills everything,
wraps around my spine,
pulls me upright
before my mind can argue.
And oh—
it does argue.
I cannot do this again.
I need sleep.
Please, just sleep.
But my arms—
traitors to my exhaustion—
reach for you anyway.
Because you fit there
like something remembered,
like my body knew you
before you were ever placed in it.
You quiet against me.
Of course you do.
Your breath finds mine,
your weight settles
into the softest part of me,
and I feel it—
that unbearable, holy contradiction:
I don’t want to hold you forever.
I want my body back.
My silence.
My sleep.
And still—
if there is any place in this world
you will rest this deeply,
this safely,
this completely—
it is here.
It is me.
So I stay.
With the scream still silent,
with tears still coming,
with love that feels
too big for the hour—
I stay.
And the night stretches on,
and I disappear a little,
and somehow
become everything
you need

There is a scream
that never makes it past my teeth,
it lives behind my ribs—
pressed thin,
breathing shallow,
learning how to be quiet.
The house is dark
in that heavy, sacred way,
where even the clock
ticks softer
like it knows
someone is barely holding on.
Hot tears slip sideways
into my ears,
cool against the pillow
that hasn’t known rest—
not really.
You are awake again.
Your cry is small
but it fills everything,
wraps around my spine,
pulls me upright
before my mind can argue.
And oh—
it does argue.
I cannot do this again.
I need sleep.
Please, just sleep.
But my arms—
traitors to my exhaustion—
reach for you anyway.
Because you fit there
like something remembered,
like my body knew you
before you were ever placed in it.
You quiet against me.
Of course you do.
Your breath finds mine,
your weight settles
into the softest part of me,
and I feel it—
that unbearable, holy contradiction:
I don’t want to hold you forever.
I want my body back.
My silence.
My sleep.
And still—
if there is any place in this world
you will rest this deeply,
this safely,
this completely—
it is here.
It is me.
So I stay.
With the scream still silent,
with tears still coming,
with love that feels
too big for the hour—
I stay.
And the night stretches on,
and I disappear a little,
and somehow
become everything
you need