What working motherhood really looks like when the sleep runs out
I’ve been doing this whole mom thing for a couple of years now, and I’ve come to a realization: moms don’t get the luxury of stopping.
Every kind of mom is carrying something heavy, but today I’m thinking about the ones who rub their eyes in the shower before dawn, stumble through the kitchen half-asleep to throw together a quick breakfast, change diapers, feed the dog, pack lunches, and still make it out the door for work. We do it on autopilot, because what choice do we have?
And right now, I am tired. Not just a little tired — the kind of tired that makes me feel like I’m back in the newborn stage all over again. The stage I thought would never end, and then, somehow, ended far too soon.
Up until last week, Caleb was a dream sleeper. We had a routine: brush teeth, bedtime story, crib, smile, lights out. He’d drift off, and I’d finally get my one small window of free time before starting it all over again the next day.
Now? Not even close. He clamps his mouth shut when I try to brush his teeth and bolts for my room, begging to sleep in my bed. I put him in his crib, turn on the new unicorn pillow and nightlight — no dice. He stands and screams until he’s trembling. Some nights it lasts thirty minutes, others an hour. And that’s just round one. Almost always, he’s up again between one and four, howling until the whole house is awake. One night he cried for two straight hours. I hated it so much I played a rain sound video on my phone just to drown it out.
We’ve caved a few times and brought him into our bed, but no one sleeps then either. Sharing a bed with him feels like sharing a bed with an octopus — arms and legs flailing in every direction, smacking, kicking, rolling, twisting. By morning I’m just as wrecked as if I’d stayed up all night. So we’re trying Cry It Out again, though it feels like my resolve is breaking with every sob I hear through the walls.
The result? Flashbacks to those newborn days when I lived in a fog — except now I’m expected to put on real clothes, show up to work, and be fully functional. No one at the office cares if I got three hours of sleep. The projects still have to be finished. The emails still need answers.
I’ve learned to ration my energy. On the mornings after a decent night, I take on the tasks that require the most focus — writing newsletters, creating graphics, anything that demands real thought and creativity. On the days I’m running on fumes, I give myself the mindless work: weeding old books from the collection, updating spreadsheets, cleaning up the little things. It’s the only system that makes sense, and it keeps me moving forward.
A friend without kids asked me how I’m even functioning. The truth is, I function because I don’t have a choice. I still get up. I still pack the lunch and the diaper bag. I still go to work, even when I feel like a shell of myself. And when I come home, I still wrestle a squirmy toddler into pajamas, read a bedtime story, and start the whole cycle over.
This is what working motherhood looks like: showing up tired, but showing up anyway.
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