The One “Normal” Thing About Motherhood That I’d Change—Because It’s Not Normal at All

Motherhood ≠ Exhaustion. And yet, for so many of us, it is.

Not just the exhaustion of sleepless nights, but the deeper, more insidious fatigue of doing it alone. The exhaustion of being the sole keeper of needs, the only one listening for the cry in the night, the one constantly pouring from a well that never has time to fill.

I’ve lived both sides of this.

With my first, I felt the weight of it—not just as a mother, but as a woman navigating a system that was never built to support me. It was the height of the COVID pandemic, and isolation wasn’t just emotional; it was structural. There was no village, no hands to pass my baby to, no gentle reminder that I was still a person beyond the constant caregiving. My husband and I did it alone, because we thought that’s what modern parents do.

Then I had my twins.

And this time, I had a community. Meals showed up at my door without me asking. Friends rocked babies so I could shower. People held me as much as I was holding them. And suddenly, something radical happened: I was less exhausted with newborn twins than I had been with my first.

Exhaustion Is Not the Price of Motherhood—It’s the Cost of Doing It Alone

Yet we have come to believe that maternal depletion is just part of the job. We glorify self-sacrifice, treating exhaustion as a marker of devotion. We say, this is just how it is, as if there were no other way. But history tells a different story.

Because this is not how we have always mothered.

Anthropologists who study early human societies—those most reflective of the conditions we evolved in—find that motherhood was never a solitary act. Infants were carried not just by their mothers, but by grandmothers, aunts, siblings, and other women in the community. Motherhood was diffuse, shared, supported. A new mother was mothered as she mothered her child.

It is only in recent history, with the rise of individualism, nuclear family structures, and the relentless demands of modern life, that we have stripped away this scaffolding. Now, we tell women that being everything to their children is the highest calling, while simultaneously removing every layer of support that would make that possible.

And we wonder why we are breaking.

We Are Wired for Connection—So Why Do We Resist It?

If we know we are meant to mother in community, why is it so hard to accept help?

Part of it is cultural conditioning. We are taught that strength means self-sufficiency, that asking for help is an admission of failure. We fear burdening others. We tell ourselves we should be able to handle it. And so, we suffer in silence, performing competence even as we unravel inside.

But let me offer you this: What if receiving is also an act of generosity?

When we accept help, we affirm that we are interdependent beings, that we were never meant to do this alone. We give others permission to show up for us, just as we would show up for them. We restore the lost art of community care, one small act at a time.

So if you are deep in the trenches of early motherhood, exhausted beyond words, wondering if this is just how it has to be—know this: It’s not you. It’s the system. And it doesn’t have to be this way.

If you know a new mom, check in. Bring a meal. Offer to hold the baby. Remind her that she is not meant to do this alone.

Because exhaustion should not be the default state of motherhood. It never was. And it’s time we stop accepting it as normal.