People say “single mom” like it’s a label you wear. Like it’s just a different type of parenting. But it’s not. It’s a whole different world.
Before, I used to think I understood. I’d nod when someone talked about how hard it was, say things like “you’re doing amazing,” or “I don’t know how you do it.”
But now I do know.
I know what it’s like to have a crying baby in one arm and a toddler throwing cereal on the floor—and there’s no one coming to tag you out.
I know what it’s like to rock one child to sleep while the other clings to your leg, whispering, “Mommy, are you okay?” when you’re trying not to cry in front of them.
I know the silence of 2 a.m. feeds, and the panic when one gets sick and you have to be nurse, driver, comforter, and parent—all at once.
But I also know the strength you didn’t realize you had until it was just you.
This photo? It looks happy. It is happy. But it also holds everything you don’t see.
Nothing really prepares you for the exhaustion of solo parenting. People tell you it’ll be tough, but they don’t explain how it will weigh on every part of your life. They don’t tell you that you’ll wake up in the morning already tired from a restless night, then spend your whole day juggling doctor’s appointments, meal prep, laundry, tantrums, and tears. They don’t tell you how it feels when you put the kids to bed and finally collapse on the couch, only to realize there’s no one to talk to, no one to share your frustrations with.
But in that exhaustion, there’s a clarity that comes from doing it all yourself. You start to understand things you didn’t before.
I used to envy people with partners. I used to think, If I just had help, and for a while, I allowed myself to drown in that thought. If I had someone to share the burden, it wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. But then one day, I realized something: help wasn’t going to change how I felt. I needed to change how I saw things.
It started when I had one of those rare moments of calm. The kids were at daycare for a few hours, and I had the house to myself. It was the first time in months I could hear my own thoughts without the constant background noise of tantrums, cartoons, and “Mom, where’s my…?” I took a deep breath, and for the first time, I allowed myself to think clearly.
I didn’t need someone else to make it easier. I needed to change the way I looked at the situation. Yes, it was hard. Yes, it was overwhelming. But it wasn’t impossible. I could do this. I was doing it.
I started making small changes in my mindset. I let go of the idea that I had to be perfect. I stopped expecting to have it all together. I learned to ask for help when I needed it, but I also realized that asking for help wasn’t a sign of weakness—it was a sign of strength. I made time for myself, even if it was just ten minutes to read a book while the kids were distracted. I focused on the little victories—the days when the kids ate their vegetables, or when I managed to get them to bed without a meltdown. Those small wins started adding up, and I began to see how much I was actually handling on my own.
But then came a twist I never expected.
One evening, after a particularly tough day, I ran into an old friend of mine at the grocery store. Sarah had always been someone I admired—she seemed to have it all together, with her perfect family and spotless house. I’d heard through the grapevine that she and her husband were doing well, and I assumed everything was going great.
We exchanged pleasantries, and I could tell she was genuinely concerned when she asked how I was doing.
“I’m managing,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s a lot, but I’m getting through it.”
“I can’t imagine how tough it must be,” she said. “But I have to say, I admire your strength. I don’t know how you do it.”
And in that moment, something clicked. I was used to people telling me how strong I was. It had almost become a compliment I accepted without thinking about it. But something about Sarah’s words stuck with me. I had been struggling for so long, barely keeping my head above water, and yet here was someone telling me I was strong.
That night, I sat down with my journal, a habit I had recently picked up to help clear my head. I wrote about Sarah’s words and reflected on how I had been feeling. As I wrote, I began to realize something I hadn’t seen before.
Sarah had seemed so put-together, but she didn’t know what was happening behind closed doors. She didn’t know that her picture-perfect life was just a front for a relationship on the brink of collapse. She didn’t know that her husband had been spending more time at the office than at home, or that she was carrying a heavy emotional burden, keeping up the appearance of a happy family while feeling lonely and disconnected.
In that moment, I realized that no one’s life was as perfect as it seemed. We were all just doing our best, trying to keep it together, and that was okay.
But the biggest twist of all came when Sarah reached out to me a few days later. She told me that her marriage was falling apart. Her husband had been distant for months, and she wasn’t sure where they stood anymore. She had been trying to keep everything together, but she didn’t know how much longer she could pretend.
In that moment, I realized that the strength I had been developing, the strength that had carried me through every tough day, wasn’t just for me—it was for the people around me, too. I was able to listen to Sarah without judgment, to offer advice and support, not from a place of perfection, but from a place of understanding. I had been through my own struggles, and in a strange way, that made me stronger, more capable of helping others.
It was a karmic twist—because just when I thought I was barely holding it all together, I found myself in a position to help someone else. I had been so focused on my own journey, my own battles, that I hadn’t realized how much I could offer someone else who was struggling with their own version of loneliness and uncertainty.
Over the next few weeks, I stayed in touch with Sarah, offering her the same advice and compassion I had been learning to give myself. Slowly, she began to open up about her fears, her frustrations, and her hopes for the future. And in that process, I realized something powerful: the more I gave, the more I received. Not just in the form of advice, but in the way I saw my own life.
The truth is, solo parenting is never easy. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it’s also the most rewarding. It teaches you about your own limits, your own resilience, and your own ability to give love even when it feels like you have nothing left to give. And the most surprising thing of all? It shows you that you are stronger than you think.
If you’re going through a tough time, if you’re struggling to keep it all together, remember this: you are not alone. We all have our battles, and sometimes, the strength you show for yourself ends up helping someone else more than you could ever imagine.
So, share this with someone who needs a reminder that they’re doing better than they think. You might not always see it, but you’re making it through—one day at a time.
And if you’ve ever felt like you’re not strong enough, I promise you, you are. You’ve got this.
