There’s this part of me that always wants to do everything myself. Not because I don’t have help—Rex is amazing, the boys are healthy, we’ve got family and friends nearby—but because somewhere in my brain, there’s this stubborn little voice that whispers, “You’ve got it. You don’t need to ask.”
Spoiler: that voice is a liar.
I don’t know when I started confusing independence with isolation, but somewhere between motherhood, marriage, and a thousand loads of laundry, I built this invisible checklist of things I should handle. Keep the house running? Me. Manage the boys’ school stuff? Me. Remember dentist appointments, pack snacks, plan date nights, refill the dog’s food? Still me.
It’s like I put on this invisible superhero cape every morning—except it’s less “Wonder Woman” and more “Exhausted Woman Who Can’t Find Her Keys.”
Rex will notice sometimes. He’ll say, “Babe, you don’t have to do everything,” and I’ll smile and say, “I know,” which, of course, is a lie. Then I’ll keep right on doing everything.
Marriage is funny like that—it’s this constant balancing act between partnership and independence. I love being capable. I love feeling like I can hold it all together. But I’ve realized lately that being the “rock” all the time leaves you kind of lonely on your little island.
Take the other night, for example. I was trying to make dinner, answer Nico’s homework question, and stop Anthony from “washing” the dog with dish soap. Rex offered to help, and instead of saying yes, I said, “I’ve got it.” Two minutes later, noodles boiled over, the dog was wet, and I may or may not have muttered something unholy under my breath.
He looked at me, calm as ever, and said, “You sure you’ve got it?” Touché.
It’s not pride exactly—it’s habit. Somewhere deep down, I think I started believing that asking for help made me weaker. But the truth is, it makes me human. And honestly, it makes me easier to live with. (Rex would absolutely second that.)
It’s hard, though, right? Especially for moms. We’re trained to multitask, to keep things running smoothly, to anticipate needs before anyone says them out loud. But it’s exhausting to always be the one holding up the world, even if it’s a small, messy, love-filled one.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m teaching the boys the wrong thing by trying to do it all. I don’t want them growing up thinking love looks like silent endurance. I want them to see partnership, teamwork, give-and-take. I want them to know it’s okay to say, “I need a hand,” or “I’m tired.” That strength doesn’t mean doing it all—it means knowing when to rest.
And honestly, it’s taken me years to learn that. I’m still learning. There are days I still retreat to my “island,” convince myself it’s easier that way, and then end up frustrated and overwhelmed. But lately, I’m trying something different. When Rex offers to handle bedtime, I say yes. When a friend asks if I want to drop the kids off for a playdate, I say yes. When I need a breather, I take it—without guilt (okay, less guilt).
Because being a rock sounds noble until you realize rocks don’t bend, don’t grow, don’t connect. They just sit there, solid but alone. And I don’t want to be that. I want to be part of something—messy, noisy, shared.
So yeah, I’m still strong, still stubborn, still the girl who likes to “handle it.” But I’m learning to let people in, to let the load be lighter, to remember that marriage, motherhood, and life in general aren’t meant to be solo acts.
Sometimes love looks like asking for help. Sometimes it’s saying, “I can’t do this right now,” and letting someone step in without feeling like you’ve failed.
I guess the truth is, I’m still a rock—but maybe now I’m part of a shoreline. Held up by a tide that comes in, goes out, and reminds me I don’t have to stand alone all the time.