Something Like: A day from hell

For a long time, I’ve been seen as not doing enough — especially when it comes to financial

contribution. That only ever came out during the heat of an argument, of course. But it stayed with me.

The truth is, where we live — on an island — if you don’t have help from grandparents or extended family, there is no real way to manage young kids and also work. Part-time babysitters cost nearly the same (and more) as a part-time salary, and the only "benefit" would be getting out of the house.

On top of that, I needed to be home in the mornings and the afternoons to take care of the house and prepare meals. (Here, lunch is the main meal of the day.)

So the only time left to work... was in the evening. Which I did. But that wasn’t ideal either, because I was then missing out on family time.

Eventually, I found an online teaching job that let me work from home. That way, I could be "available" and bring in an income.

But here’s the thing: when you’re always available, you’re always needed.

The prepping. The cooking. The picking up. The errands. The cleaning. The emotions. The unseen labor.

All of it fell to me.

The good mom, always there.

Well, I reached my limit.

I was tired of being seen as not supportive enough when I was giving myself to everyone. So I did something for me. I finally put one of my thousand thoughts into motion and started building a blog.

It was exhausting. But beautiful. It exceeded my own expectations and abilities and showed me that I am someone. More than a mother. More than a wife.

I have creative, tech, and business knowledge. I have ideas and drive. And it made it all — worth it.

But it took time. And that time came at a price.

For the first month, I had support. My husband gave me space to create, and I poured myself into building something from scratch. But after that, everyone’s patience wore thin. Mom was "disappearing." Tension crept in.

Still, I kept going. I wanted to post. I needed to post. These thoughts were lingering in my mind for years. Finally, I had a place for them.

But to get some balance back at home, I had to juggle it all.

My

job. My family. The chores. The emotional labor.

The only time left to write? Late at night. When the world was quiet.

When no one else needed me.

And so, my sleep suffered.

My energy suffered.

And this week, it all came crashing down.

It’s Wednesday as I write this.

Yesterday, I broke.

The breaking point actually started the weekend before — after weeks of year-end school chaos, I asked for a little time to myself.

Instead, I was guilt-tripped into a beach day.

Sounds lovely. Except when your head is spinning with chores and missed deadlines.

The beach was okay. Until it wasn’t.

We got into an argument just before we left. The kind that lingers. It followed me into the new week —

the same week I was already being asked what we’re going to do now that school is out. The same week my younger son keeps waiting for me, reaching for me, even as I stir pots or teach classes, because I’m home… after all.

Tuesday

I planned a breakfast out for my son and his friend. It went longer than I expected, but they were happy, playing outside. So I gave them more time.

At the café, they didn’t have oat milk. I had skipped my coffee at home, thinking I’d have one there.

That little thing — that small break in routine — that was the start.

Back home, I made a quick coffee and drank it in the car while dropping off my son.

I had only 30 minutes to prep multiple lessons — one of which involved a new book I hadn’t even opened yet. I barely made it.

By 5 p.m., I was drained. But I had to cook. I started on pastitsio — a hearty Greek dish. I thought it would take 45 minutes. It took 90.

The sauce wouldn’t thicken. The tomatoes weren’t cooperating.

And then I realized: I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

That pastitsio? It’s made with meat, and since I don’t eat meat, I had to make something for myself too.

I had pizza dough, so I sauteed some vegetables, added sauce, and put it in the oven. Homemade. From scratch.

Then everyone came home.

The kitchen turned into a circus. Noise. Movement. Everyone reaching for something.

This is where it broke me.

I pulled out the pizza — and the pan slipped.

It hit the stove. The oven. The counter. The cupboards.

And then it splattered onto the floor.

It was everywhere.

I just left it there.

I still had to finish the pastitsio and get it in the oven.

Everyone started scattering. My husband asked if I wanted help, but honestly, I didn't want anyone there. I was already tearing up.

Eventually, I cleaned the mess. Still hungry. Still tired. Still holding it together by a thread.

As I was walking to my room for a moment of quiet.

I passed the laundry room — I saw a full load waiting to be hung.

I almost laughed.

But I hung it up. Because otherwise it would smell and I’d have to do it all over again.

In this moment of desperation, my older son came over and gave me a hug.

It was really sweet — and it grounded me, even if just a little.

But the pain didn’t leave.

So I went to my room.

Shut the door.

And let myself collapse.

This is the cycle.

The kids never stop. The house never stops. The guilt doesn’t rest.

The pressure doesn’t ask if you’ve had coffee.

And maybe it all started with a missed coffee.

Or maybe it started with the lack of sleep.

Or maybe it started years ago, when I learned that my needs would always come last.

I don’t know.

But I do know this:

That one day — that one pizza — wasn’t the only thing that fell apart.

If you’ve ever reached that point, I hope this made you feel less alone.

Sometimes, you have to find a moment of peace and let it linger for just a second longer — to get you through the day.

And sometimes, that’s everything.

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