There’s something that no one quite prepares you for when you become a mum—the weight of guilt that creeps in, especially on the days when you’re not at your best.
For me, that guilt shows up in so many ways. It’s not just about screen time or what meals look like that day. It runs deeper. It’s the kind of guilt that whispers, “You should be doing more.” And as a disabled mum, that whisper sometimes turns into a roar.
When Self-Care Feels Like Selfishness
There are days when my pain levels are high. Days where my joints feel like they’ve aged decades overnight or where fatigue sits heavy on my chest before I’ve even had a sip of tea. On those days, taking care of myself isn’t a luxury—it’s a survival strategy. But try explaining that to a toddler who just wants to be held or play on the floor or have mummy come running.
It’s heartbreaking to say, “Not right now, sweetheart.”
Even worse when I try to push through and end up in more pain than I started with.
Because the truth is, you can love your child more than life itself and still not be able to give them everything they want or need in that moment. That doesn’t make you a bad mum. It makes you human.
When Chronic Pain Is “Normal” – and Then It’s Not
I live with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, so chronic pain is just… part of my daily life. It’s like a constant background noise I’ve learned to live with. But when new pain hits—especially in places that don’t usually hurt—it can feel completely overwhelming.
And if you’re neurodivergent like I am, it’s not just the physical pain that’s hard. It’s the sensory overload, the emotional whiplash, the way your whole body goes into fight-or-flight. Your nervous system feels like it’s buzzing, but not in a good way.
What Made Today So Much Harder
It didn’t help that this morning started at 4am.
Amelia woke up crying, and when I went to check on her, I found her absolutely soaking. Her nappy had leaked through everything—pyjamas, sleep sheet, the works. What’s normally a 15-minute settle took 45 minutes. I finally got back into bed at 4:45, thinking I might get an hour of sleep.
But because Ryan does a mental health sports group on Friday mornings, his alarm went off at 5am. At one point, he even turned the light on to find something. He’s nearly blind without his glasses or contact lenses, so I get it—but still, it was just too much.
And then, of course, Amelia was up again at 6am.
But the worst part? When I went to change her nappy at 4am, I slipped. I twisted my ankle and whacked my shoulder on the bed rail. So on top of everything else today, I’ve been in even more pain than usual. Pain I wouldn’t have had if I hadn’t fallen. And it’s that extra pain that tipped me over the edge. It made me feel like the worst mum in the world because I couldn’t be as present, patient, or physically available to Amelia as I wanted to be.
I Know I’m a Good Mum… But It Doesn’t Always Feel That Way
I know, deep down, that being a good mum doesn’t mean being able to do everything all the time. But in the moment, when you can’t meet their needs—or even their wants—it feels like failure.
Because society tells us mums should be everything. That our needs come last. And when you’re disabled, chronically ill or neurodivergent, you’re already operating with a completely different baseline. It can feel like you’re playing a game where everyone else starts at 100%, and you’re stuck at 40% just trying to keep up.
What I’m Still Learning
Here’s the truth I keep coming back to: looking after myself IS looking after Amelia.
If I don’t rest when I need to, if I push through too much, I burn out. I break down. I can’t give her the love and support she deserves—not just today but in the days to come. Saying “Mummy needs a rest” isn’t a weakness. It’s a message that our needs matter too.
And I want her to grow up knowing that.
That it’s okay to have limits. That it’s okay to listen to your body. That love doesn’t disappear just because mummy isn’t on the floor building towers or scooping her up on demand.
Because love isn’t just shown in cuddles and energy—it’s shown in consistency, safety, warmth, and presence, even if that presence is sitting with a heat pack and offering a lap instead of arms.
To the Mum Crying in the Bathroom at 4am…
If you’ve had a morning like mine, or a week like this one, please know: you are not alone.
This isn’t you failing. This is you surviving. This is you adapting. This is you doing the best you can with a body and mind that asks more of you than it does of others.
You are not broken. You are doing brilliantly, even if it doesn’t feel like it today.
Call to Action
If this blog resonated with you, please like, share, or comment below. Tell me your story. Let’s remind each other that we are enough—even on the hard days.
And if you’d like more real and relatable stories about parenting while disabled, neurodivergent or simply human, subscribe to the blog so you never miss a post. You matter. Your story matters. And you’re not in this alone.
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