Still Here

People love to say “it takes a village.”
But what happens when you never really had one?

Because motherhood for me has felt like survival mode with no backup plan.
Just me, my kids, my anxiety, my health problems, my exhaustion, and the same four walls every single day.

And before anybody says it

yes, I know these are my kids. I brought them into this world. They didn’t ask to be here. I understand that responsibility deeply. That’s exactly why I push myself beyond my limits trying to give them the best life I can.

But knowing they’re your responsibility doesn’t magically erase the fact that motherhood can still feel isolating as hell.

Especially when you’re battling PTSD, anxiety, panic attacks, chronic illness, multiple sclerosis, seizures, stroke-related weakness, and still expected to function like nothing is wrong.

People see the outside.
They see my kids dressed nice. Clean. Hair done. Smelling good.
They say, “You’re such a good mother.”

But nobody sees what it costs me physically and mentally to hold everything together.

Nobody sees me running on empty.

Sometimes I’m so fatigued and overwhelmed that I get dizzy trying to do everything. I’m walking around exhausted, stressed, mentally overloaded, trying to fit motherhood into everybody else’s expectations while silently falling apart myself.

And after a while, all the criticism starts getting into your head.

You start questioning yourself.
Your worth.
Your value.

Why do I never feel like enough when I’m literally doing the best I can?

I Raised My Oldest Practically Alone

I practically raised my oldest son by myself.

I finally put his father on child support, not because I can’t provide, but because parenting was never supposed to fall on one person alone. According to him, though, it’s my fault their relationship isn’t strong. His favorite phrase? “Parental alienation.” Bullshit.

You cannot disappear emotionally from your child’s life and then blame the mother who stayed.

He believed parenting was about discipline and authority.
What the child felt never mattered.
Their emotional needs didn’t matter.
Only his words mattered because “I’m the adult.”

That mentality destroys kids slowly.

And honestly? It destroyed me too.

Motherhood In Your 30s Hits Different

After miscarriages, I truly believed I wouldn’t have more children. I accepted it. So having my daughter and then my son felt unexpected and beautiful.

But let me tell you something nobody says enough:

Having kids in your 30s is NOT for the weak.

Pregnancy in your 30s feels different.
The body pain.
The lightning crotch.
The exhaustion that hits your bones.
The nausea.
The heartburn that feels like fire climbing into your throat.

My pregnancies were all considered high risk, so appointments became a constant part of my life. Doctor appointments for the babies. Specialist appointments for me. Bloodwork. Monitoring. More testing. More worrying. Constantly making sure my babies were okay while also making sure my own body wasn’t falling apart.

And trying to juggle all of that while already exhausted mentally and physically was overwhelming.

Then once the babies were born, the appointments didn’t stop. Pediatricians. Follow-ups. Vaccines. Development checks. And somewhere in between all of that, trying to keep up with my own medical appointments too.

I also breastfed all three of my children, and people really underestimate how demanding breastfeeding can be physically and emotionally. Your body is never fully yours. You are constantly needed. Constantly touched. Constantly giving.

My pregnancy with my son was HARD. He was a big baby and I was uncomfortable the entire time. I cried constantly because I just didn’t feel good. Then came gestational diabetes, and suddenly I couldn’t even eat the foods I craved.

It literally felt like taking candy away from a child.

And after having my son, I had my tubes removed. Nobody prepared me for how hard that recovery would hit me physically and emotionally on top of postpartum. I was healing from childbirth while also healing from surgery, trying to care for a newborn, my daughter, my oldest son, and somehow still function like a normal human being.

My body felt exhausted in ways I can’t even explain. Everything hurt. Even getting up felt hard some days. But mothers don’t really get the luxury of stopping to recover. The kids still need you even when your body is begging for rest.

And postpartum? People romanticize motherhood so much that they barely talk about the mental and physical toll it takes on women afterward.

Hispanic Families Normalize Trauma Then Judge You For Healing

One thing I’ve realized is Hispanic families can be brutal.

And before anyone gets offended — if you know, you KNOW.

There’s always gossip.
Always competition.
Always judgment.
Always someone talking shit behind your back while smiling in your face.

And the favoritism toward men? Don’t even get me started.

The women are expected to serve everybody. Cook. Clean. Wash dishes. Cater to the men like we’re still living in the fucking 1900s.

Meanwhile the sons get babied into adulthood.

What’s crazy is the same people who beat us with chanclas, belts, hangers, or whatever they could grab growing up suddenly become parenting experts when WE discipline our own kids.

I grew up getting threatened and yelled at constantly because there were so many cousins packed into one building. They disciplined the fuck out of us.

But now if I correct my daughter for pushing her brother hard enough for him to hit his head, suddenly I’m the villain?

So I’m supposed to ignore bad behavior because according to them “she’s jealous of the baby.”

That’s not parenting. That’s avoidance.

The Judgment Never Ends

What makes motherhood even harder is everybody thinking they have the right to parent YOUR children their way instead of respecting that you’re their mother.

And the irony?
The same people judging us now were mean as shit when we were growing up.

Back then nobody cared about our feelings.
Nobody cared if we felt emotionally safe.
We got yelled at, threatened, hit with whatever they could grab, and told to “stop crying before I give you something to cry about.”

But now suddenly everybody’s a parenting expert.

I actually consider my children’s feelings. I apologize to them. I comfort them. I try to understand them emotionally while still teaching discipline and respect.

But somehow I’m still wrong.

If I don’t bathe my daughter at the exact time THEY think she should bathe, suddenly I’m neglecting her because I prefer nighttime baths instead of morning baths.

Like what the actual fuck does that have to do with being a good mother?

Then there’s the food judgment.

If I give my daughter McDonald’s one day because I’m exhausted and physically drained, suddenly that’s a problem too.

Can a mom not catch a fucking break sometimes?
Can I not be tired for ONE day and grab something quick?

But then on another day those SAME people will say, “Why didn’t you bring her something from outside? She’s hungry.”

So fast food is okay when THEY think it is?

That’s what’s so exhausting about motherhood around judgmental family. The rules constantly change depending on their mood.

Meanwhile I’m the one raising these kids every single day.

Not them.

Toddlers Are Literally Tiny Dramatic Roommates

And can we talk about toddlers for a second? Because nobody warned me they would be this emotionally unstable over absolutely EVERYTHING.

My daughter is sweet, hilarious, loving… and dramatic as hell.

Everything hurts.
Everything is an emergency.
If she bumps into the couch slightly? Tears.
If her brother looks at her too long? Tears.
If the bandaid falls off? Oh forget it — the entire world is ending.

My mom got so used to her dramatics that she literally started putting bandaids on her “injuries” automatically before even checking if anything actually happened.

And honestly? Sometimes it works.

Toddlers are basically tiny emotional support clients surviving off vibes, juice, fruit, pasta, mac and cheese, and selective carbohydrates.

People judge me because she’s skinny, meanwhile this child survives on three spoons of rice and beans, fruit, pasta with butter like she pays bills in this house, mac and cheese, juice, and pure emotional chaos.

One day she loves chicken.
The next day chicken personally offended her entire bloodline.

You could make her favorite meal perfectly and she’ll still look at it like you served her hot garbage from a dumpster behind Walmart.

Meanwhile my baby son eats EVERYTHING.
That child would probably eat the couch if I seasoned it correctly.

My oldest used to be super picky too and now suddenly he’s tearing down chuletas like a grown man.

But my daughter? Feeding her feels like working customer service for a tiny angry food critic who didn’t even ask for the meal but still wants to complain about it dramatically. One minute she’s begging for pasta, the next minute she’s crying because the pasta “looks weird” even though it’s the SAME pasta she ate yesterday like her life depended on it.

And bedtime? Don’t even get me started.

Before bed she needs kisses. Okay cute right? NO. Because once she’s finally laying down peacefully, suddenly she remembers she needs another kiss. Then another. Then another.

I’ll sit down finally thinking the day is over and suddenly hear:

“MOMMMM or DADDDDD ONE MORE KISS!”

Five different times.

At this point I be walking back into her room like an exhausted Uber Eats driver delivering affection on demand.

And if I don’t do it dramatically enough? Immediate heartbreak. Tears. Betrayal. I’m suddenly the worst mother alive because my kiss “wasn’t big enough.”

Toddlers are emotionally unwell tiny humans running entire households with vibes and terrorism.

And somehow mothers still get blamed for toddler eating habits and behavior like we have a remote control hidden somewhere.

Trust me, if I had one, we’d all be sleeping through the night and eating vegetables peacefully.

The Comment That Broke Me

One comment destroyed me recently.

Someone in my family said my daughter looks “malnourished.”
That she’s “too skinny.”
That maybe she isn’t getting enough attention because the baby gets it all.
That maybe I don’t love her enough.

Do people realize how deeply words like that cut a mother already drowning?

Especially one stuck in survival mode every day.

My daughter is healthy.
Her doctor confirmed it.
Her bloodwork is good.

But mothers already blame themselves for everything. So when someone throws comments like that at you, it sticks.

It makes you question yourself at 2 AM while you’re trying to sleep but you keep tossing and turning and feeling guilty some how because it’s my fault?

Help Always Comes With Strings Attached

And yes, sometimes I need help.

I have chronic illnesses.
I have appointments.
I have medical emergencies sometimes.

But in Hispanic families especially, help rarely comes without guilt attached to it.

If someone babysits for one appointment, suddenly it feels like you owe them your soul.

Mind you, I’m not out partying.
I’m usually at doctor appointments trying to make sure my body is functioning properly.

And even then, I’m being rushed.

I literally have to tell doctors, “Can you hurry up? They’re waiting for me.”
As if I control how long medical appointments take.

God forbid I ever wanted to do something for myself.

A manicure.
A pedicure.
A quiet dinner with my husband.
A romantic night out.

Nope.

Somehow mothers are expected to completely disappear as human beings once they have children.

And if we dare want one second for ourselves, we’re selfish.

I could never win.

Even My Emergencies Became Inconveniences

One time while pregnant with my son, I passed out at the ophthalmologist’s office and got rushed to the emergency room.

And instead of concern, I’m getting phone calls telling me to hurry up because my kids needed to eat.

I WAS IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM.

Do you know how insane that sounds?

Even when I was literally giving birth to my son, I felt rushed.

Like somehow I was inconveniencing everybody by being in labor too long.

As if I could just tell my son, “Okay hurry up and come out because people are waiting.”

That’s the kind of pressure mothers silently carry.

You’re expected to keep showing up no matter how sick, exhausted, overwhelmed, or broken you feel.

And when you finally admit you’re drowning, people don’t always throw you a life raft.

Sometimes they just criticize how you’re trying to stay afloat.

Marriage Can Feel Lonely Too

And honestly? Sometimes even my marriage feels lonely.

My husband works full time, but his schedule is unpredictable, so a lot of the weight still falls on me. Having a husband can feel like having a bonus child at times, it’s another whole responsibility.

We’ve also been through a lot over the years that made me emotionally distance myself from him at times. Trust doesn’t magically rebuild overnight.

The hardest part is that emotional support doesn’t come naturally to him.

He’s never really been the relationship type. Most of his past relationships were short-lived and didn’t involve much responsibility. So I’ve had to spend years being patient, hoping he would learn what love really entails.

What marriage entails.
What being a stepfather entails.
What being a father entails.

And sometimes I’m still waiting.

Birthdays.
Anniversaries.
Mother’s Day.

A lot of the time they feel like regular days.

One year I didn’t even get a happy birthday until the evening. Instead of simply saying, “I forgot,” it somehow got turned into me being “too sensitive” because I wanted to hear it earlier in the day.

That hurt more than the forgotten birthday itself.

Because I pour endless love into people.

And sometimes it feels like none of it comes back to me the same way.

I’ve made excuses for him for years. Told myself maybe he just doesn’t know better because of his past or how he was raised.

But after a while, constantly begging someone for emotional support starts wearing you down.

My biggest issue has never been money or material things.

It’s feeling special.
feeling emotionally attended to.
Not feeling chosen naturally.

Everything feels like I have to ask.
Beg.
Explain.
Repeat.

And after a while you start asking yourself hard questions.

Is this enough for me?
Am I okay living like this forever?
Is he emotionally unavailable?
Do I walk away?

Because I refuse to waste another 13 years simply because we share children.

Nobody Talks About How Lonely Stay-At-Home Motherhood Can Feel

I barely leave the house.

Not because I don’t want to — because sometimes my health makes it terrifying.

My MS is unpredictable.
The seizures are unpredictable.
The weakness from my stroke is unpredictable.

Some days I’m scared to even take my kids out alone because I never know how my body is going to act.

So most days it’s just me and the kids until my husband gets home.

No girls nights.
No brunch dates.
No friend randomly stopping by.
No support system checking in consistently.

Just motherhood on repeat.

Wake up.
Feed everybody.
Clean.
Break up fights.
Cook again.
Laundry.
Tantrums.
No sleep.
Repeat.

Bedtime isn’t even bedtime in this house.

My son still wakes up through the night.
My daughter wakes up randomly because apparently toddlers believe sleep is optional.
So real rest? I barely know what that feels like anymore.

And honestly? I feel alone a lot.

Not “I need attention” alone.
I mean deeply emotionally isolated.

Friendships changed.
People stopped checking in.
Or maybe I stopped fitting into their lives once mine became diapers, doctors, therapies, and survival.

I was always the friend reaching out first anyway.
Always texting first.
Always trying harder.

Eventually you get tired of watering relationships that never pour back into you.

My Therapist Is Probably Tired Of Me

Honestly, my therapist is probably my accidental best friend at this point.

I even text her outside appointments sometimes because I genuinely have nobody else to vent to. Poor girl probably doesn’t even realize she’s holding me together half the time.

She’s younger than me, but somehow she helps me see things differently. She helps me separate guilt from reality.

Because the reality is this:

I am trying.

Every single day I am trying.

Even when my body hurts.
Even when my mind hurts.
Even when I feel touched out, exhausted, overstimulated, anxious, and emotionally drained.

I still show up for my kids.

Motherhood Can Be Beautiful And Brutal At The Same Time

That’s the part people struggle to understand.

You can love your children with your entire soul and STILL admit motherhood is hard.

You can be grateful and exhausted.
Present and overwhelmed.
Strong and barely hanging on.

Both things can exist at once.

I think a lot of mothers are silently drowning because everyone expects us to suffer beautifully.

But some days motherhood doesn’t look beautiful.

Some days it looks like crying in the bathroom.
Cold coffee.
Anxiety attacks while making bottles.
Eating leftovers standing up.
Feeling invisible.
Feeling guilty for needing a break.

And maybe that’s why I started this blog.

Because maybe another mother out there is sitting in her house feeling exactly like this wondering if she’s failing too.

Wondering why nobody checks on the mother who’s checking on everybody else.

Wondering why she feels so alone even surrounded by people.

Wondering why she keeps pouring from an empty cup.

But despite all of it…
the exhaustion, the judgment, the loneliness, the emotional weight, the health battles, the sleepless nights, the pressure, the heartbreak, the feeling of never being enough…

I’m still here.

Still loving my children fiercely.
Still waking up every day and trying again.
Still fighting through the exhaustion.
Still surviving days that feel impossible.
Still finding pieces of myself through the chaos.

Maybe not perfectly.
Maybe not gracefully.
But I’m here.

And maybe that’s strength too.