🦚Why you feel like a failure when you're doing so much

“I don’t know why she’s having another kid when she can’t deal with the ones she has already.”

The words still ring in my ears, all these years later. I was 39 weeks pregnant with my fourth child. I’d spent the last week preparing for my daughter’s fifth birthday party, making pinatas with my kids using papier-mache and balloons, cooking party food, setting up games and party favors, even organizing a Barbie cake. It was the dream birthday party that I’d always wanted and had never had as a child. And it was totally spoiled by those words I overheard one little guest’s mom say to another.

I was a failure. For over 20 years afterwards, the memory of those words would trigger a flush of shame that would overwhelm my body, and make me want to dig a deep hole to go hide myself in. And then, this year, my therapist asked the question that cracked open decades of misplaced guilt.

“Where was your husband?”
“Well, he picked up the Barbie cake for me.” I said, “He had to drive an hour out of his way to do that. And he was at the party, taking photos.”

My therapist just looked at me. The silence stretched between us until I realized what I was doing.

I was making excuses for him. Again.

Yes, he worked full time, and yes, he did me this “favor” and was there for the party. But I did all the labor for the kids, all the labor in the home. I cooked all his meals, ironed his clothes to the military precision he demanded, and managed every detail of our children's lives. I was also expected to be available for whatever he needed.

The birthday party was just a more visible version of what happened every single day. When he was home, he was present in body, floating around like an observer but absent as a partner. He had successfully positioned himself as the provider while I was everything else: mother, household manager, personal attendant, and invisible laborer keeping our family afloat.

Where was he during the countless hours of daily parenting when he was home? Where was he during homework time, bedtime routines, doctor's appointments, sports practices? Where was he when decisions needed to be made about our children's education, activities, or wellbeing? Where was he when I had to wake up to feed and soothe them at night as babies?

He was there, at home, but the responsibility was always mine. The mental load was mine. The worry was mine. And when judgment came from other parents, when I was deemed a failure for being pregnant with “another one when she can't deal with the ones she has already,” the shame landed squarely on my shoulders. Not on those of their father, who was standing off to the side, taking photos.

This is the invisible architecture of abuse, and it stays in place after you leave the abusive relationship. Society has been conditioned to see mothers as the primary parent, the one responsible for everything that goes right or wrong with the children. Meanwhile, fathers, even abusive ones, get credit for doing the absolute minimum or for just earning money.

I see this pattern everywhere now. Recently, a mother told me and some others how she felt like a “a really crappy mom” because her daughter was struggling with reading. When her daughter’s teacher praised her daughter’s progress during the summer, she felt ashamed because her ex had been doing reading with their daughter this last summer.

“Their dad has been teaching them to read,” she said. “It’s just harder for me to teach her to read in French, and frankly, I haven’t had any energy for it.”

Her shame was palpable. Here’s a mother drowning under the weight of everything else. She’s managing schedules, handling emotions, dealing with an emotionally abusive, accusatory, and often neglectful ex, working, keeping everyone fed and clothed and functioning. Now she’s beating herself up because she didn’t have the energy to tackle one more thing. The thing that happened to be her ex’s native language.

But, just like my therapist, the other women around her saw right away what her shame stopped her from seeing. Where was he for everything else? Where was he during the countless other moments when their daughter needed support? Where was he for the daily grind of parenting that extends far beyond reading lessons?

This resonated deeply with me because I also carried shame about yet another thing (on a long list of things) for years. I hardly read to my children at bedtime. I can count the times I did so on two hands. It was one of those “good mother” activities that I just didn't have the bandwidth for after managing everything else in our household. I felt terrible about it, like I was failing them in some fundamental way.

But, again, where was my husband during those bedtime routines? He was sitting in front of the TV or at his computer, unwinding. Why was bedtime my sole responsibility when he was home? Because I was the mom. Why was I carrying shame for not doing something extra when I was already doing everything essential? Because I’m a woman and that’s what we do.

Did I mention that I was a morning person and he was a night person? In a truly equitable household, I would have been up with the kids at 5 am and he would have been the one putting them to bed while I unwound. But very few male-female relationships are equitable, and in an abusive relationship, the inequities are exponential.

This is how abuse works. It stops you from standing up for your own needs. You don’t have the energy for anything but the essentials. Then society (and your own internalized voice) shames you for not being the Instagram-perfect mother you think you should be.

When you’re already doing the work of two parents while you’re being held to impossible standards, of course, you don't have energy for everything. Of course, something has to give. The tragedy is that we blame ourselves for our limitations instead of questioning why we’re so depleted in the first place. Or we beat ourselves up for not doing the one thing that our partner or ex is actually in a better position to do and steps up to do once in a while.

You’re not lowering the bar by holding yourself to the “good enough” standard. You’re just recognizing that the bar was set impossibly high by someone who was making you jump over it.

Working full time doesn't excuse a dad from emotional involvement in their children’s lives. And it certainly doesn’t excuse them from taking on some of the countless daily tasks that wear you down to nothing.

So, here’s what I want you to understand about the shame you carry about not having energy for extra activities, about not being the mother you think you should be.

That shame was never yours to carry.

That shame belongs to the person who watched you carry everything alone and never thought to do their part and lighten your load. The person who does the occasional thing that’s easy and convenient for them and then takes outsize credit for it. The shame belongs to the system that tells mothers they should be endlessly giving while fathers get praised for basic participation.

You’ve been carrying shame for being human, for having limits, for being finite, for not being able to do everything perfectly when you’re already doing everything you possibly can.

The question “Where was your husband?” isn't just asking about his physical presence. It’s asking about emotional labor, mental load, and the thousands of invisible tasks that keep a family functioning. It’s asking about who shows up for the daily grind and who gets to swoop in for the highlight moments.

When you can see this really, really clearly, something powerful happens. The shame starts to lift. You realize that you aren’t failing. You’re surviving. You aren’t lazy. You’re overwhelmed.

When you’re drowning, you’re not expected to beat the Olympic record in 100 m butterfly. Just keeping your head above water is a massive achievement.

That realization can free you from decades of misplaced guilt. It also gives you the clarity to recognize these patterns when they continue in your post-separation life. Because they will continue. Abusive exes don't suddenly become responsible co-parents after divorce. They just find new ways to make their occasional contributions overshadow your constant presence.

The next time you feel that familiar wash of shame about what you didn’t have energy or the bandwidth for, ask yourself: “Where is he in this story? What’s his responsibility here? Why am I carrying all the weight and all the guilt?”

And remember: you don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to have boundless energy. You just need to be good enough. Because when you’re doing the work of two people with the resources of one, good enough is actually extraordinary.

The shame was never yours to hold. It’s time to let go of it.

Here’s my daughter in front of the beautiful Barbie cake. She’s in her twenties now, and I asked her this morning, just before sending off this newsletter, what her favorite part of the party was. She told me she didn’t like the cake because it didn’t taste that nice, and her favorite things were probably the party favors and the toys.

I’m crying.

Want to know how I can help you?

Are you tired of carrying shame that was never yours to begin with? Do you find yourself making excuses for your ex’s minimal contributions while beating yourself up for not being the “perfect” mother? Are you exhausted from doing the work of two parents while somehow still feeling like you’re failing?

It’s time to stop asking “What's wrong with me?” and start asking “Where was he in all of this?” Feel free to contact me for a 30-minute consultation, free of charge, where you can finally talk to someone who understands that your feelings of inadequacy aren’t evidence of your failure. They’re actually evidence of an impossible system designed to make you feel responsible for everything.

I’ll help you recognize the difference between your actual limitations and the impossible standards you’ve been held to, and identify what’s keeping you stuck in old patterns of shame and self-criticism. You’ll leave with clarity about what you’ve actually been carrying all these years, validation that the exhaustion is real and justified, and a clearer understanding of how coaching might help you finally put down burdens that were never yours to carry.

Want to know more about what I do?

Resources

I decided to look for some resources on the topic of unwarranted shame. The foremost expert on this is Brené Brown. Her TED talks and her books, like Daring Greatly, are foundational for understanding how shame operates and how to break free from it.

The Gifts of Imperfection, also by Brené Brown, specifically addresses the perfectionism trap that keeps mothers feeling inadequate.

When it comes to the topic of the inequity of labor between men and women, Zawn Villenes writes a lot of thought-provoking stuff.

Last, but certainly not least is the book All the Rage: Mothers, Fathers, and the Myth of Equal Partnership by Darcy Lockman. This data-driven deep dive exposes the uncomfortable truth that even in dual-income households, mothers still do twice as much childcare and household labor as fathers. Lockman combines extensive research with personal stories to reveal how “successful male resistance” to equal partnership shows up in subtle but pervasive ways, from fathers who are “happy to help when asked” to the unconscious expectation that mothers should be the default parent for everything.

What makes this book particularly powerful for anyone dealing with an abusive or difficult ex is how it validates the invisible labor you've been carrying. Lockman’s research shows that 77.7% of mothers are solely responsible for sick children, working mothers are 2.5 times more likely to get up at night, and fathers report twice as much leisure time as mothers. The book explains how women often end up “leaning into” domestic ownership to cope with an unjust system, which creates even more exhaustion and resentment.

As one reviewer put it: “Prepare for clarity…and rage!” And don’t be scared of rage (I feel another newsletter topic coming on). It’s an essential step, once you realize you’ve been shortchanged, on the path to healing.