By Nicole Meyer 
Some mornings I wake up already behind. Not just on the laundry or the dishes—but on myself. I know the washer needs to be switched, lunches need to be packed, someone will be asking for something any second. But I lie there, stuck in the kind of tired that isn’t just about sleep. It’s the kind of tired that comes from carrying too much for too long. I think about the weight I’ve gained, the clothes that don’t fit, the energy I don’t have—but mostly, I think about how heavy everything feels. And I wonder: How do I lose the weight when I carry so much of it?
The Weight You Can See
My body has changed, but not in the way people assume. The weight I carry now didn’t come from either of my pregnancies. My first, at 21, was a breeze. My daughter was calm, my body bounced back, and back then, motherhood felt light—at least lighter than this.
Now I’m 34, raising a toddler boy who is fast, fearless, and full of energy. I love him deeply, but sometimes I feel like I’m running to keep up with my own life. I feel it in my breath, in my knees, in the way I hesitate to get on the floor, knowing how much effort it will take to get back up.
But I don’t want to go back. I’m not trying to reclaim a version of me that existed before kids—I’m trying to move forward into a body that feels strong again. A life that feels like mine again. Not smaller. Not thinner. Just… capable. Energized. Alive.
And I’m not only thinking about myself. I have a teenage daughter now, a young woman who is beginning to shape her view of womanhood by watching me. And I want her to know that parenting didn’t erase me—it made me. It stretched me in ways nothing else ever could. But I also want her to see that motherhood shouldn’t come at the cost of our well-being. That we’re allowed to be caretakers and still take care of ourselves.
The Weight You Can’t See
Because the heaviest things I carry don’t live in my body. They live in my mind. The constant tabs open: Did I schedule the appointment? What’s for dinner? Is he developing on track? Did she finish her homework? Did I answer that email? The mental load of managing everyone’s lives—without being asked, without being thanked—is enough to bury anyone.
Parenting didn’t make me disappear. But the mental load, the imbalance, the emotional labor of carrying what no one else even seems to notice—that’s where I get lost. That’s where I feel unseen.
And it shows up in small ways. Standing in the kitchen making dinner while my toddler cries at my feet and my partner walks in and says, “What didn’t you get done today?” The moments I eat standing over the sink because there’s no room to sit with myself. The way I keep showing up for everyone else while quietly sinking.
I don’t just carry pounds. I carry pressure. I carry guilt. I carry questions I don’t have answers to. I carry the silence in my relationship, the overstimulation of my days, the fear that if I stop holding it all, something will break.
What I’m Trying to Let Go of
So, how do I lose the weight?
Not just the weight on my body—but the weight in my heart. The heaviness of showing up and holding everything together. The ache of knowing there’s no one coming to rescue me from this part. That if anything’s going to change, it has to start with me.
I’m learning to let go of shame. I’m letting go of the idea that self-care has to look a certain way or that progress has to be visible on a scale. I’m learning to choose the walk, even if it’s short. The water, even if it’s late. The pause, even if I don’t think I’ve earned it.
I want to lose the weight—but not just the kind you can measure. I want to lose the fear. The guilt. The belief that I’m only valuable if I’m serving. I want to gain space. Strength. Peace. And maybe—one day soon—I’ll look in the mirror and see a woman who carries a lot, yes. But also knows what she can finally put down.
by Amy Weatherly 
by HVFH Contributor 
by Brynn Burger 
