She holds everything together. That's the problem.

She is the one who remembers. The permission slip. The allergy. Which kid needs to be where and by when. She is the calendar, the coordinator, the quiet engine behind a household that runs because she refuses to let it stall.

At work, she is capable. More than capable. She is the one they come to when something needs to be handled properly. She delivers. She always delivers.

And somewhere between the 6am alarm and the moment she finally sits down… truly sits down… at 9pm, there is a woman underneath all of that doing who has slowly, almost unnoticeably, stopped being attended to.

She doesn't notice it at first. It shows up in small ways. She catches her reflection in a car window and thinks, “I look tired”. She puts on the moisturiser she's used for years and wonders why it doesn't seem to be doing anything anymore. She pulls her hair back and sees a face that looks like it's carrying something… but she can't name what.

She tells herself this is just what life looks like right now. Busy. Full. A bit relentless. She'll get to herself later.

Later never arrives on its own.

Here is a truth that nobody says plainly, so we will: the way she feels right now is not a permanent condition. It's not age. It's not just motherhood. It's not "how things are."

It is the cost of being the woman who holds everything. And holds nothing back for herself.

And it is, quietly and without permission, beginning to show.

Not because she's failing. Because she's giving from a well that nobody is refilling. Not even her.

The question she hasn't asked yet because she's too busy asking everyone else what they need is a simple one.

When was the last time someone took care of you?

Not a rushed shower. Not a face wipe at midnight. Not the leftovers of a day spent on everyone else.

When was the last time you were the reason you walked through a door?