By Ashley Butler 
There’s a kind of exhaustion sleep can’t fix. The kind that builds quietly from being needed all the time.
It’s the mental load, the emotional load, the “I just need a minute but there are no minutes left” load. It’s living in a state of permanent readiness—the human version of a smoke detector that never gets to power down.
Even when I’m “off,” I’m not really off. My mind hums with background tasks: Did I switch the laundry? Do we have enough bread for lunches? Is tomorrow pajama day or field trip day?
I don’t just remember things; I carry them.
It’s a strange tension, wanting to be fully present with your kids while your brain is already halfway to tomorrow. You’re listening to a story about Minecraft, but you’re also thinking about what’s for dinner and whether you remembered to sign that permission slip. You’re smiling, nodding, saying “that’s so cool, buddy,” while mentally mapping out tomorrow’s to-do list.
And even when it’s time to wind down for the night, I’m still in “go” mode.
I know my daughter will change her mind the second I put on whatever show or movie she requested, so I hover for a few seconds before setting the remote down. I know my son will suddenly remember something “super duper important” right as I’m closing his bedroom door, so I linger there for a moment after saying goodnight.
Even when everyone else has gone quiet, my body doesn’t believe it. My shoulders stay tense, my brain keeps scanning the room for what I might’ve missed.
My husband jokes that he doesn’t start eating his meal until I’ve had my first bite. He’s not wrong. Because even when I finally sit down, I inevitably get up again to refill a drink, grab a napkin, or find whatever someone suddenly can’t live without. He’ll smile and shake his head and say, “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
And he’s right. I can’t. Because the minute I stop moving, I start feeling. And that’s when the resentment creeps in.
By the end of the day, the weight of being “on” for everyone else starts pressing down.
I find myself snapping over small things—the toys on the floor, the crumbs on the counter—when what I’m really reacting to is the endless repetition of it all.
Sometimes, it’s not even the interruptions themselves that wear me down. It’s the anticipation of them. The constant alertness. The emotional bracing. The sense that if I let my guard down, something will fall apart.
Motherhood teaches endurance, but not necessarily peace.
It’s wild how easy it is to forget moms are human beings, not backup generators. I don’t get to reboot when my battery runs low; I just keep running, hoping I’ll find a pocket of stillness somewhere in the day.
And when I do, when I finally sit down with a cup of coffee that’s somehow still warm, I catch myself scrolling through school emails or mentally rewriting the grocery list. Because stillness feels foreign. Silence feels suspicious.
But I’m learning I can’t wait for someone else to give me permission to unplug. No one’s going to come along and say, “You’ve done enough, go rest.” I have to say it to myself.
Because the truth is, my family doesn’t need me to be constantly “on.” They need me to last. They need a mom who can laugh again, not one running on fumes.
So now, when I feel that pressure rising, that tightness in my chest, that racing checklist in my brain, I try to pause.
Not to fix everything.
Just to breathe.
To remember that being “on” all the time isn’t what makes me a good mom.
Being here, even imperfectly, even tired, even halfway through a thought, that’s what matters.
Because maybe the most loving thing I can do for everyone, including myself, is to finally, mercifully, power down.
by Alicia K. Albertson 
