I See Myself in Her

On Overwhelmed Mothers, Changing Bodies, and the Bridge We Still Need to Build

I do not write this because I am ungrateful.

Alhamdulillah, Allah has blessed me far beyond what I deserve.

A husband.

Children.

A home.

Food on the table.

Decades of memories.

The immense privilege of motherhood itself.

Naturally, I know these are blessings, and I am fully aware that many people long for exactly what I have. Yet, I also know that Allah says:

لَقَدْ خَلَقْنَا الْإِنسَانَ فِي كَبَدٍ

“Indeed, We have created humankind in toil and hardship.” Surah Al-Balad 90:4

Ultimately, hardship is not the opposite of gratitude; it is simply part of being human. Consequently, I believe women often experience that specific toil in ways that are incredibly difficult to articulate to those who have never lived inside our bodies.

The View from the Outside

Now and then, I come across posts by husbands expressing sadness that their wives no longer take care of themselves as they once did. Specifically, they note that their spouses have gained weight and do not dress up as often. Furthermore, these women no longer go to the gym, appearing entirely tired, exhausted, and disconnected.

I read those posts with incredibly complicated feelings.

Because the truth is: I see myself in those women. While I may not relate entirely, I understand enough to feel their deep exhaustion. Indeed, I know that what appears as neglect from the outside feels entirely different from the inside.

Many women spend years of their lives continuously pregnant, postpartum, or breastfeeding. In addition, they spend decades carrying babies, toddlers, school schedules, lunchboxes, doctor appointments, emotional burdens, household logistics, and the vast invisible labour that keeps a family functioning.

Confronted by a lifetime of interrupted sleep, they endure years of being constantly touched, needed, and depended upon. Consequently, their days are defined by constant interruptions and years of putting everyone else’s needs before their own.

People ask: “Why doesn’t she just go to the gym?” However, I wonder if they completely misunderstand the question. For an overwhelmed mother, the gym is not a matter of motivation; it is a matter of capacity.

The Reality of “One Hour”

People imagine the gym as a single hour. In contrast, women know it is rarely just an hour. Instead, it requires:

• Preparing the house before leaving.
• Finding childcare and coordinating schedules.
• Driving through traffic.
• Changing clothes and exercising.
• Showering and catching your breath.
• Driving home, only to return immediately to the same mountain of responsibility.

Therefore, that single hour easily becomes three. As a result, for many mothers, three uninterrupted hours feel like a mathematical impossibility.

Women are often physically, mentally, and emotionally tired—the kind of tiredness that settles deep into your bones and makes even enjoyable things feel heavy. Thus, at the end of a relentless day, many women are not choosing between exercise and laziness.

They are choosing between exercise and silence. They are choosing between physical exertion and rest, or simply longing for an hour in which nobody needs them.

Admittedly, I think many husbands genuinely do not understand what this feels like. But this is not because they are uncaring; rather, it is because they have never experienced being needed in quite the same all-consuming way.

The Quiet Grief of Change

We expect women to remain physically unchanged after years of caregiving, but caregiving fundamentally changes people. Inevitably, bodies change, energy levels drop, hormones shift, and health dynamics change. For some women, chronic illnesses even arrive, making daily aches become normal and energy severely limited.

Weight gain is a gradual process. A little is left behind after one pregnancy; some is lost, only to be regained during another season of stress and exhaustion. Eventually, a woman looks in the mirror one day and hardly recognizes the person she used to be.

And yes, many women miss being thinner. I do. Of course I do.

Back then, life felt easier and shopping felt more pleasant. Walking into a clothing store did not come with immediate anxiety about whether anything would fit. Instead, clothes were fun, movement was easier, and my body felt familiar.

This is not vanity. This is grief. Ultimately, it is the quiet grief of watching your own body tell the physical story of twenty years spent caring for others.

Holding Up the Mirror

Therefore, I sometimes wish husbands would pause and ask themselves a difficult and honest question:

If I have time to exercise, to care for my health, to pursue hobbies, to maintain my appearance, and perhaps even enjoy the confidence that comes with receiving attention from others, how much support have I given my wife so that she can do the same? How many uninterrupted hours truly belong to her each week?

How often does she leave the house without preparing meals first, or without organizing homework?

Can she step away without mentally carrying tomorrow’s schedule, and without wondering who will answer the next crying child?

How often does she get to simply be a person?

Not a mother. Not a household manager. Not the keeper of everyone’s memories. Nor the one who must remember everything. Just a person.

Because self-care is not merely discipline; it is opportunity. Above all, it is margin, it is support, and it is the relief of someone saying:

“I’ve got this. Go take care of yourself. Go exercise, go read, go sit in a café, or go take a walk. Go remember who you are beyond what you do for everyone else.” —

Building the Missing Bridge

This is not about blaming men. To be fair, men carry heavy, honorable burdens too, including provision, leadership, financial pressure, expectations, and deep responsibility. Undeniably, their hardships are real.

But I think there is still a vital bridge missing between the ways men and women experience hardship. While women generally understand that men feel the immense weight of provision, I hope more men can understand what it feels like to spend two decades existing in a body that belongs to everyone except yourself.

Imagine spending years pregnant, postpartum, and recovering. Picture a life of constantly comforting, carrying, remembering, organizing, and giving. Eventually, caring for yourself becomes emotionally difficult—not because you do not think you matter, but because everyone else has mattered first for so long. I do not write this because I am unhappy with my life, nor because I am ungrateful. Rather, I write this because I know thousands of women quietly carry these exact feelings, and I know many husbands sincerely want to understand.

Perhaps, this essay is simply an attempt to translate our experience. It is written for the sisters who need to feel seen, and for the husbands who truly want to understand.

Gratitude and hardship can coexist.

Love and exhaustion can coexist.

Blessings and burdens can coexist.

And maybe, true understanding begins when we stop asking, “Why has she changed?” and begin asking:

“How has her life changed her?”