#107: The Hidden Cost of Doing It All Alone
“It takes a village to raise a child ”
I wish my mum was here.
Not because I don’t know what to do. Not because I can’t cope. But because sometimes strength feels very lonely.
Freya was sick last night. She was throwing up between midnight and five in the morning. The kind of night where time stretches, where the house is quiet except for the sounds no mother ever gets used to hearing.
At the same time, Dave was driving back from Switzerland in a snowstorm. I watched the weather radar between trips to the bathroom, holding one child while worrying about another adult on icy roads. He got home safely. I was grateful. And exhausted.
It was one of those nights that empties you out.
By morning, I was already writing messages to the kindergarten and to work. We wouldn’t be coming in today. I am fortunate — truly — that my employer understands that I am a mum and that there are days when I cannot show up professionally because my presence is required somewhere deeper.
We don’t have grandparents nearby. No one lives around the corner. No emergency call.
And when a child is sick, it is the mother who becomes the anchor. The familiar heartbeat. The body that feels safe. No daddy and no grandma can quite replace the primal comfort a child seeks in the dark.
But here is the part we rarely say out loud.
On mornings like this, I wish someone would take care of me.
Not because I am incapable. Not because I am weak. But because caring is a current that needs to flow in both directions. When it only flows outward, something inside us quietly begins to dry up.
And yet many of us feel uncomfortable even thinking that thought.
To want support sounds indulgent. Dependent. Fragile. We were taught that independence is strength. That managing it all is maturity. That asking for help is a sign that we cannot cope.
But biologically, emotionally, spiritually — we were never designed to mother alone.
For most of human history, a child belonged to a circle. Women carried each other through pregnancy, birth, illness, sleepless nights. There were grandmothers, sisters, neighbours. There was rhythm. There was shared responsibility. There was witnessing.
Today, many mothers live in houses that are physically bigger than ever before — and emotionally emptier.
We manage careers. We coordinate logistics. We regulate emotions. We optimise nutrition. We read labels. We plan meals. We track development milestones. We absorb stress.
And we do it quietly.
The cost is not always visible at first. It shows up as fatigue that sleep doesn’t fix. As irritability we feel ashamed of. As a body that holds on to weight or tension. As a nervous system that never quite settles. As a subtle sense of isolation we cannot name.
Children feel it too. Not because we are failing them, but because human systems are designed to be supported. When support disappears, strain appears somewhere else. Sometimes it looks like tantrums. Sometimes like screens replacing presence. Sometimes like families moving through life efficiently — but not deeply.
Somewhere along the way, our culture replaced the village with productivity. It replaced interdependence with self-sufficiency. And then, almost invisibly, it placed the emotional burden back on mothers.
I don’t think we were meant to accept that without question.
Do I have a complete solution? No. Rebuilding a village is not a solo project. It requires a cultural shift, a willingness to soften our pride, and a redefinition of what strength really means.
But perhaps restoration begins quietly. With one friend. One neighbour. One honest conversation. With the courage to say, “I’m tired,” without apologising. With the willingness to both offer help and receive it — because both require vulnerability.
I find receiving help the hardest part.
If your own mother lives nearby, you may not realise what a gift that is. Many of us do not have that option. So in the meantime, while we rebuild something larger, we tend to what we can control.
We simplify.
We remove unnecessary demands. We cook real food instead of relying on what comes in shiny packaging. We sleep. We walk. We allow small moments of joy that belong only to us. Not as luxury. As maintenance.
Self-care, in this context, is not a trend. It is infrastructure. It is how we prevent resentment from becoming illness. It is how we preserve tenderness in a system that constantly demands output.
And if you ever see a tired mum in a supermarket while her child is melting down, pause before you judge.
She will not ask for help. She may not even know what she needs. She has been pushing through for so long that exhaustion feels normal.
Sometimes all it takes to begin rebuilding the village is a smile. A door held open. A sentence that says, “You’re doing fine.” The village does not reappear overnight. But it begins in moments like that. It starts with kindness.
And maybe, on nights when we whisper, “I wish my mum was here,” what we are really saying is this: I wish I didn’t have to be strong alone.
With love,
Karo