Week Nine: Sometimes IT IS HARD

The Wedding, the Poonami, and the Day I Broke

It started with a wedding.

One of those dreamy, soft-focus days where the air smells like roses and prosecco, and everyone’s dressed like they’ve stepped out of a magazine. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. A chance to dress up, feel like a woman again—not just a mum covered in milk and dry shampoo. I even wore mascara. That’s how serious I was about this day.

Hunter was dressed like a tiny gentleman, all buttoned up and adorable. Granny was lined up to babysit so we could enjoy the evening, maybe even sneak in a dance or two. I had visions of sipping champagne under fairy lights, laughing with friends, feeling like myself again.

But motherhood doesn’t care about your RSVP.

We had made it through the gorgeous ceremony, just about survived the incredible 3-course meal (I can honestly say, the pork fillet with a cider reduction was to die for!!) - Hunter had a few tears at this stage, had his feed and a nappy change before dessert but we were going strong!! We even made it through the speeches with no tears or tantrums and it was just wonderful to hear from the Bride’s father, the best man and the groom - how beautiful Martin’s words were to his bride Melissa. But, just as the reception began, Hunter decided to unleash what I can only describe as a poonami++. Not your average blowout. This was a full-scale, outfit-destroying, wipes-won’t-cut-it kind of situation. The kind where you’re whispering “oh my god” while trying to maintain composure in a room full of lace and linen. I was elbow-deep in chaos while everyone else was toasting love. To make matters worse, I changed him, wiped the s**t off of my arm and was about to vacate the baby changing facility, when a loud but bubbling roar came from Hunter… the poop seeped through his change of clothes and onto my arm AGAIN!! I nearly cried there and then. How? Where is it all coming from? I had approx 2 baby wipes left, no clothes to change him into again and I had met my match. I undid his nappy and cautiously wiped his bottom, ensuring I used every square millimeter of the wipes to get maximum use! It was only after I had managed to wipe him down, did little Hunter decide that it was now a great time to pee - ALL OVER MY SATIN DRESS… I was done, Granny was already on her way to collect Hunter….

We didn’t make it to the reception. Granny never got her babysitting moment. We packed up, changed clothes, and headed home. I cried in the car—not because of the mess, but because I felt like I was missing out on life. Again.

That’s the thing no one tells you. It’s not just the nappies and the feeds and the sleepless nights. It’s the way motherhood quietly rearranges your entire existence. The way it steals moments you didn’t know you’d miss. The way it makes you feel like you’re watching your own life from the sidelines.

I was so happy for the bride and groom. But all I could think about was how far away I felt from myself and how much I was missing out on the celebrations

And that was only the beginning of the week.

Monday brought a new kind of magic.

Hunter had his first swimming lesson. I wasn’t sure how he’d take to it—he’s got strong opinions for someone so small. He wasn’t having any of it with the milk lady (classic Hunter), but then he met Sally, his swim teacher. And oh my goodness, he was smitten.

He relaxed so deeply in the water that he actually fell asleep mid-lesson. I watched him float there, peaceful and content, and for a moment everything felt calm. It was one of those rare parenting moments where you think, “Okay. Maybe I’m doing alright.”

I clung to that moment. I needed it more than I realised.

Because the next day broke me.

I don’t even know how to describe it properly. It wasn’t one big thing—it was everything. The kind of day where you wake up already exhausted, and somehow it just gets heavier from there.

Hunter hadn’t slept. Which meant I hadn’t slept. My body felt like it had been hit by a truck, and my brain was foggy and slow. My boobs were so full they felt like they might actually explode. I express my milk, so I need time to pump. But on this day? There was no time. No space. No pause.

Every time I tried to put Hunter down, he cried. Not just a little fuss—full-on, red-faced, breathless sobs. The kind that make you feel like you’re failing just for needing a moment to pee. I held him for hours. My arms ached. My back throbbed. I was touched out, overstimulated, and completely overwhelmed.

I kept thinking, “I just need ten minutes.” Ten minutes to pump. Ten minutes to sit. Ten minutes to not be needed. But those ten minutes never came. How I long to be able to go and get my nails done, my hair done, walk the dogs without having to carry Hunter too (Although I do enjoy those walks, sometimes, just sometimes, it would be therapeutic to have the me time!), do the food shopping without tantrums, Just be “me” for a day and not “mummy”

I cried in the kitchen while the kettle boiled. I cried on the sofa trying to rock Hunter to sleep. I cried during the nappy changes, the feeds and I cried harder when Hunter was crying at me. Mine were silent tears. The kind that sneak out when you’re too tired to hold them back. I felt like I was disappearing. Like I was watching my life happen from the outside, and I couldn’t find my way back in.

And then came the guilt.

Because how dare I feel this way? I have a beautiful baby. I have support. I have a business I love. I’m supposed to be grateful. I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be the one who empowers others.

But I wasn’t strong that day. I was broken.

And you know what? That’s okay.

We don’t talk about this enough. The days that strip you bare. The ones where you feel like you’re failing, even though you’re doing everything you possibly can. The ones where you cry just as much as your baby. The ones where you feel like you’re drowning in nappies and noise and expectations.

Motherhood is beautiful. But it’s also brutal.

It’s okay to feel shit some days. It doesn’t make you a bad mum. It makes you a human one.

Sometimes it’s exhaustion. Sometimes it’s hormones. Sometimes it’s postpartum depression. If these days start stacking up, please—talk to someone, arrange an appointment with your GP, contact your health visitor, speak to friends and family. You’re not alone, and you don’t have to carry this by yourself.

Here are some incredible resources for mums in the UK who need support:

• 💛 Maternal Mental Health Alliance – A network of organisations dedicated to ensuring every mum has access to compassionate mental health care before, during, and after pregnancy. Home | Maternal Mental Health Alliance

• 🧠 Mind’s Perinatal Mental Health Support – Offers guidance on talking to your GP, accessing specialist services, and finding community support. Postnatal depression and perinatal mental health

• 🤱 Mothers for Mothers – A Bristol-based charity offering emotional wellbeing support for mums and birthing people in the early years. Mothers for Mothers | Postnatal mental health support

If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it, I see you. You’re not failing. You’re not weak. You’re just tired. And you’re doing an incredible job.

So if today was a bad day, let it be. Don’t try to fix it. Don’t try to force joy. Just survive it.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow is a new one. A fresh start. A chance to breathe. A chance to try again.

You’re not alone in this. I’m right here with you. And so are thousands of other mums who’ve cried in the kitchen, screamed into pillows, and questioned everything.

We’re in this together. And together, we rise.

I wish someone had told me that earlier.

I wish someone had looked me in the eye and said, “You’re allowed to feel. You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to be messy.”

Because I spent so long trying to be perfect. Trying to be strong. Trying to be the mum who had it all together.

And it nearly broke me.

Now, I’m learning to let go. To cry when I need to. To ask for help. To rest. To feel.

I’m learning that motherhood isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up, even when you’re running on fumes. It’s about loving your child so much it hurts—and sometimes, it really does hurt.

I’m also learning to grieve.

Not just the hard days. But the version of me that existed before motherhood.

I miss her. The one who had energy. The one who had time. The one who felt like a person.

And that grief is real.

You’re allowed to mourn the version of you that existed before motherhood. You’re allowed to miss her. You’re allowed to want her back.

But you’re also allowed to love the new you. The one who’s stronger than she knows. The one who’s surviving. The one who’s showing up, even when it hurts.

So here’s what I want to say, from one mum to another:

You’re not broken.

You’re not alone.

You’re not failing.

You’re allowed to feel.

You’re allowed to ask for help.

You’re allowed to rest.

You’re allowed to be messy.

You’re allowed to be real.

And most importantly: You’re doing an incredible job.

Again - if today was a bad day, let it be.

Don’t try to fix it. Don’t try to force joy. Just survive it.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow is a new one. A fresh start. A chance to breathe. A chance to try again.

You’re not alone in this. I’m right here with you. And so are thousands of other mums who’ve cried in the kitchen, screamed into pillows, and questioned everything.

We’re in this together. And together, we rise.

“This is just a moment. It’s not your whole story”.

Unknown author