Stuck in the Loop: A Mother’s Silent Battle

“Mom, please, you promised we’d play trucks after lunch.” Ethan’s voice, small and hopeful, cut through the clatter of dishes and the shrill ring of my phone vibrating somewhere under a pile of unopened mail. I looked at him—his cheeks still sticky from applesauce, his little hands gripping a battered yellow dump truck.

I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to say yes. But behind him, the mountain of dirty plates loomed, the chicken sat raw and accusing on the cutting board, and the laundry downstairs beeped for the third time. My mind buzzed with the relentless math of motherhood: how many minutes until the bus brings Olivia home, how many eggs left for breakfast, how many bills past due?

“Ethan, honey, can you give me five more minutes?” I tried to smile, but it felt brittle. He frowned, truck drooping, but nodded and shuffled away, dragging his feet on the linoleum. As soon as he disappeared, I slumped against the counter, hands trembling. I hated myself for letting him down—again.

A year ago, I was Jennifer Adams, marketing manager at a tech startup in Raleigh. Now, I am just Mom, or sometimes Jenny, to the other women at the park, all of us orbiting our children like tired moons. I gave up my job when Olivia started kindergarten and Ethan needed speech therapy—the commute, the costs, the guilt. I thought I’d find fulfillment here, at home. But most days, I can’t even find myself.

The back door banged open. “Jenny, have you seen my blue tie?” my husband, Mike, called from the stairs. I flinched at the sound of my name—he only used it when he was stressed. “It’s laundry day, remember? It should be in your closet, left side,” I called back, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

He muttered something I couldn’t catch, and I heard him rummaging. I wiped my hands on a towel and peeked at Ethan, now lining up his trucks alone in the living room. My chest tightened. I wanted to be the mom who played, who laughed, who wasn’t always busy.

The phone buzzed again. A text from my sister, Rachel: Any luck with your resume? You need to get out of the house, Jen.

I didn’t answer. I hadn’t updated my resume in months. The idea of interviews, of asking for help, of explaining my “gap”—it filled me with dread. What if I’m not good enough anymore? What if this is all I’m meant for?

The afternoon blurred—Olivia home from school, chattering about a fight on the playground. “Mom, Emma said I was weird for bringing homemade lunch. She said only poor kids eat bologna.” She looked at me, eyes wide and wounded. I swallowed hard, remembering the coupons clipped to the fridge and the small, gnawing shame of one income.

I tried to hug her, but she pulled away. “Can we order pizza tonight? Like the other kids.”

“We can’t, sweetie. Maybe this weekend.”

She stomped away, slamming her door. I stood in the hallway, feeling the house echo with my failures. How did I become this person—resentful, lonely, always saying no?

At dinner, Mike barely looked up from his phone. “Did you pay the car insurance?”

“I thought you were doing it this month.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I’m working overtime, Jen. Can’t you handle it?”

I stared at him, the unfairness burning. I wanted to scream, to throw a plate, to make him see me. But I just nodded, scraping chicken into Ethan’s bowl.

After bedtime, I sat on the porch, wine glass in hand, scrolling through photos of old college friends—vacations, promotions, smiling faces. I imagined what they’d say if they saw me now: bathrobe at noon, hair unwashed, dreams on hold. I wondered when I’d last talked to anyone about something real—something that wasn’t a grocery list or a field trip form.

The darkness pressed in. I remembered my mom, her hands always in motion, her voice tight with exhaustion. “You have to give your kids everything,” she used to say. “That’s what makes a good mother.” But what if giving everything means losing yourself?

The next morning, Ethan crawled into my lap, his head warm against my chest. “Are you happy, Mommy?” he whispered.

I froze. I wanted to lie, to say Of course, baby. But my eyes stung with tears. “I’m trying, sweetheart. I’m really trying.”

Later, I found Olivia’s drawing on the fridge—a picture of our family, all of us smiling, holding hands. She’d drawn me with a crown. I stared at it for a long time, and for the first time in months, I let myself cry. Not just for what I’d lost, but for what I still had.

That night, I wrote in my journal for the first time in years. I made a list—small things I wanted: to read a book, to go for a walk alone, to call Rachel back. Maybe it wasn’t too late to find myself again.

So, here I am, asking: Have you ever felt invisible in your own life? When did you last do something just for you? I wonder if anyone else is out there, spinning in the same endless loop—and if, maybe, we can help each other find a way out.