I’m an Overstimulated Mom

Somewhere along the way, I became “that mom.”

The one who always has it together. The one who remembers the school theme days, signs the permission slips, preps the lunches, shows up to the appointments, and somehow manages to still smile at the end of a long day. The one who rarely asks for help. The one others call “amazing” or say, “I don’t know how you do it all.”

And truthfully? I don’t either.

Because here’s the part no one sees, the part that gets hidden behind the polished moments and the constant doing: I’m tired.

Tired in the way only a mother who’s poured from an empty cup for too long can be.

Tired in the way that silence starts to feel like oxygen.

Tired of being overestimated.

Yes, I’m strong. But that strength isn’t infinite.

Yes, I’m capable. But I’m also overwhelmed.

Yes, I can carry a lot. But that doesn’t mean I always want to.

Sometimes, I just want to not be the go-to.

To sit. To breathe. To not be needed for a little while.

And in those moments, silence becomes my sanctuary.

Silence: My Safe Space

I crave silence, not because I’m upset or depressed or distant, but because it’s the only time I hear myself anymore.

My days are filled with constant motion.

“Where’s my water bottle?”

“Can you help me with this?”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Moooom, I need you!”

And I show up, again and again, without hesitation. Because I love them. Because I want to be there for them. Because that’s what moms do.

But at the end of the day, when the house is finally quiet, and everyone is asleep, I don’t turn on the TV. I don’t scroll. I just sit. In the dark. In the silence.

And in that moment, I finally exhale.

Silence doesn’t judge. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t ask for anything.

It just gives me space to be, something I don’t get much of in this season of life.

The Burden of Being Overestimated

There’s this unspoken weight that comes with being “the strong one.” People assume you’re okay because you always seem okay. They stop checking in because you always say, “I’ve got it.” They forget that even the strongest women can feel fragile too.

It’s flattering, in a way. To be seen as dependable. To be the one others lean on. But it can also be isolating. Because sometimes I don’t want to be “the one who handles everything.” Sometimes, I just want to fall apart for a second without anyone acting like the world is ending.

I want someone to say, “You don’t have to do it all. Let me help.”

I want space to feel everything without guilt.

I want permission to rest—not because I’ve earned it, but because I’m human.

Redefining Strength

Motherhood has taught me so much about strength—but I’ve also learned that strength doesn’t always look like pushing through.

Sometimes strength looks like saying, “I need a minute.”

Sometimes it’s stepping away, even for a little while, to refill your own cup.

Sometimes it’s being honest enough to admit that the silence isn’t just a luxury, it’s a lifeline.

And I want to say this to any other overestimated mom reading this:

You don’t have to carry it all.

You’re allowed to need rest.

You’re allowed to sit down, close your eyes, and let the quiet wrap around you like a warm blanket.

You’re allowed to stop performing strength and start practicing softness.

Because your worth isn’t measured by how much you do.

You are not a machine. You are not a superhero. You are a mother, a human being, with needs, limits, and a soul that craves peace just as much as love.

Choosing Peace, Daily

So yes, I’m an overestimated mom.

Yes, I get a lot done.

Yes, I show up for the people I love.

But behind the scenes, I’m also a woman who values stillness.

A woman who sometimes just wants to sit on the edge of the bed and stare into nothing, letting her thoughts drift.

A woman who finds her sanity not in social gatherings or constant productivity, but in sacred moments of quiet.

And I’ve stopped feeling guilty about it.

Because in that silence, I reconnect with myself.

And when I do that, I show up better, for everyone else.

So if you ever see me sitting quietly, just know: I’m not checked out.

I’m just checking in.

With myself. With my soul. With the part of me that needs a little more care than I usually give.

And in doing so, I become a stronger, more grounded, more present version of the woman my family already sees me as.