I love my kids. More than anything. I’d give my life for them without hesitation.

But—let’s be honest—I also really want to be alone sometimes.

Don’t get me wrong. Sticky fingers, loud laughs, tantrums, and all—they’re my whole world. But if I’m being brutally honest? All I really want for Mother’s Day is to not be around them.

Not the whole day, of course. Just a few hours. Six would be a dream. Three would be enough to hear myself think again.

Because right now? I can’t remember the last time I used the bathroom without someone knocking on the door. I eat dinner standing up. I fold laundry with a toddler hanging onto my leg, and my “breaks” are spent hiding in the bathroom scrolling through my phone while someone yells, “MOMMY! SHE TOOK MY TOY!”

And don’t even get me started on the “Mother’s Day surprises.” Crumbs in the bed, soggy toast on a paper towel, glitter everywhere—for weeks.

Sweet? Yes. exhau$ting? Also, yes.

But that’s the thing about motherhood. You love them unconditionally, and you wouldn’t change it for the world. Still, there’s a part of you that desperately craves some time to just breathe. To be yourself, not just someone’s mother. To have a moment where you’re not responsible for someone else’s needs, tantrums, or constant demands.

I’ve been a mom for six years now, and I wouldn’t trade my kids for anything. But the truth is, the idea of Mother’s Day—the one day moms are supposed to feel extra special—just doesn’t resonate with me the way it’s supposed to. I know some moms love the homemade gifts and breakfast in bed. But for me? The thought of spending an entire day surrounded by sticky fingers and glittery crafts just feels… overwhelming.

It was a week before Mother’s Day, and I was lying in bed, trying to ignore the overwhelming weight of exhau$tion when I heard the unmistakable sound of little feet running down the hallway. Then came the gentle knock on my bedroom door.

“Mama? Are you awake?”

I smiled, even though I felt like I might c0llapse. It was Lily, my oldest. She was five and had enough energy to run an entire circus. When she saw my face, her expression softened, and she crawled onto the bed beside me, snuggling under the covers.

“Mom, I was thinking…” she started, her voice serious. “For Mother’s Day, I want to make you something special. Like a surprise! You’ll love it. It’s going to be awesome!”

I nodded, grateful for her thoughtfulness, but all I could think about was how I was barely functioning. It was the same every year—Mother’s Day became an obligation, not a celebration. The one day I should’ve been able to recharge always turned into a whirlwind of surprises I hadn’t planned for. I loved my kids more than anything, but sometimes, I just wanted a break.

The guilt crept in. How could I feel this way? How could I wish for space when all they wanted was to show their love? They didn’t know that what I needed was simply time to sit down with a book or drink a cup of coffee without it going cold before I could finish it.

I told myself that, yes, I needed a break—but I also needed to appreciate the moments when my kids tried to show me their love, even if it came in the form of glitter-filled disasters and soggy toast.

Still, my mind kept drifting back to the idea of a few hours—just a few hours to be alone. To listen to the silence. To not be needed for a few minutes. I began planning in my head. A walk in the park, maybe. Or just sitting in the car with the windows rolled down and the music off, enjoying some peace.

When Mother’s Day arrived, I was determined to make the best of it. The kids were buzzing with excitement, running around the house with homemade cards in hand. Mark, my husband, who was always great about supporting me, was cooking breakfast. I braced myself for the chaos—crumbs, spilled juice, toys scattered everywhere—but I told myself to just let go of the frustration. I’d get my break eventually.

I didn’t realize what had happened until I stepped into the dining room.

The kids had made me a “surprise” breakfast, which involved a mountain of pancakes, a flood of syrup, and way too much whipped cream. The table was covered in sticky fingerprints, glittery hearts stuck to the sides of the plates. But as I took the “gift” of syrup-smeared cards and wet napkins, I had to laugh.

“Mommy, we love you!” Lily shouted, beaming with pride. “Happy Mother’s Day!”

I smiled, truly touched. The kids didn’t care about the mess—they just cared about making me feel loved. And in that moment, it didn’t matter that I had glitter in my hair or syrup on my shirt. What mattered was that these tiny humans, who depended on me for everything, were showing me how much they cared in their own way.

Then Mark surprised me. He walked over with a small gift, wrapped in simple paper. I didn’t expect anything from him. We’d both agreed not to buy gifts, just to spend the day together. I opened it cautiously and found a simple bracelet inside—silver, elegant, understated.

“I figured you could use something just for you,” he said, his smile warm with understanding.

That moment—the one where I was surrounded by chaos but also felt deeply loved—shifted everything. I realized that I had been so focused on needing a break that I hadn’t fully appreciated the people who were already trying to give me a moment of peace in their own way. Maybe I didn’t need a whole day to myself. Maybe what I really needed was to lean into the love they were offering, even if it wasn’t exactly what I had imagined.

As the day went on, I took small moments for myself. I stepped outside for a walk while Mark took care of the kids. I sat in the car for a few minutes, rolling down the windows and breathing deeply. I realized that, yes, I still needed those breaks—but it didn’t mean I couldn’t also embrace the love I was receiving, even in the chaos.

Later, as I tucked Lily into bed that night, she handed me one last gift—a drawing of our family with big hearts all around it. “This is for you, Mom,” she said, her voice full of love. “I hope you feel special today.”

And I did. I really did. Maybe not in the quiet, peaceful way I had imagined, but in the way only motherhood can offer—the messy, beautiful, imperfect love of a family.

That night, as I sat on the couch with Mark, I realized the key to finding balance wasn’t in seeking solitude, but in embracing the moments that came my way. Sometimes the love we need most isn’t in grand gestures or perfectly quiet moments but in the little things—the sticky fingers, the laughter, the chaos, and the shared experiences that bind us together.

I finally understood that it wasn’t about being alone for hours on end. It was about finding peace in the chaos, in the love that surrounded me, even when it felt like too much. Because that’s what motherhood is—it’s messy, exhau$ting, and overwhelming, but it’s also beautiful, rewarding, and filled with love.

So, the next time you feel overwhelmed or wish for a moment to yourself, take a deep breath. Remember that the love you’re giving and receiving is what truly matters, even in the moments when it feels like everything is falling apart.

If this story resonated with you, share it. Maybe someone you know needs the reminder that motherhood isn’t about perfection—it’s about love.

Let’s keep moving forward—together. 💙