My village had resisted growth for months, and I began to feel it. I remember the progression, when the deep ache in my back from bouncing and rocking and swaying our fussy little boy shifted course. It moved in an upward trajectory — achy back, knotted shoulders, tired mind.
But it’s the tired mind that got me. It’s the tired mind that left me with a lifeless soul and an empty heart. It’s the tired mind that prompted “the talk” right there in the middle of our living room one weekday afternoon.
“I can’t do it all,” I said to my husband with exhaustion nipping away at my body. My days had become consumed with doing and helping and moving. I had become quite masterful at it, really — divvying up my time to everyone but myself. But I didn’t know, you see. I didn’t know the enormous weight motherhood could amass on a soul. So, I tried to do it all — every diaper change, every bath, every soothing lullaby at 2 a.m.
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