To be honest, mothers make me sad. Especially working mothers with small children. Sometimes, when I see a woman in the late afternoon – pushing a buggy, a sniffling toddler in tow, tote bags swinging from her shoulder and two dark circles around her eyes – I want to cross the street. Not out of judgment, but because I can’t bear how exhausted she looks. The quiet despair etched into her face. I feel sorry for her. It’s so damn unfair. Studies and statistics back this up: the status quo for working mothers is dismal.
For years, I’ve witnessed it up close, too – in friends, work colleagues, relatives and neighbours. Their inner conflict. The overload. The heartbreak of falling short of whatever illusions they had. The anger at their limits, their circumstances. Because it really is insanely hard to work and, at the same time, keep up an orderly life, with a stocked fridge, a shiny sink, a happy child. And ideally still be a sexually attractive partner, an active citizen, a present friend. Caring for everyone – and yourself. It’s a life lived at the edge of collapse.
