When I found out I was pregnant, Jerett—my husband—and I agreed that I would leave my job and focus on being a stay-at-home mom. At the time, it felt like the right decision. But everything shifted once our daughter was born—colicky, fussy, and unwilling to let me out of her sight.

Instead of being supportive, Jerett began criticizing me, claiming I was lazy and “did nothing all day.” He hated the repeated meals, the mess, and the exhaustion—things he didn’t have to witness or endure.

I was drowning in the relentless demands of motherhood. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without Kate crying for me. The only respite came when she slept—if she slept. And rather than helping, Jerett treated me like I was failing on purpose.

One night, I reached my breaking point. I handed him the baby, took a long shower, and came out to find him already asleep. With frustration boiling over, I wrote him a note that read:

“I’m on vacation. Kate’s milk is in the fridge.”

Then I packed a bag and left—for a week. From a cozy hotel room, I watched them on the baby monitor, waiting to see how he’d handle things without me.

At first, I’ll admit it felt… wrong. There was guilt, that heavy mom guilt, clinging to me like a wet towel. But then I took a deep breath and realized I hadn’t had a single moment to myself since giving birth. Not one. And that wasn’t just unfair—it was unhealthy.

I checked the baby monitor constantly. Obsessively, even. Kate was crying in the early morning hours. Jerett, looking like a deer in headlights, tried rocking her. Then gave up and just sat on the couch while she screamed in his arms.

By the second day, he looked like he hadn’t slept. His hair was a mess, shirt stained with something orange (maybe sweet potato puree?), and he paced the living room with her in a carrier strapped to his chest like a ticking time bomb.

A small part of me smiled—but not out of pettiness. It was more like: finally, he sees.

I didn’t answer his texts at first. He started with:
“Are you serious?”
Then:
“I think she’s teething??”
Followed by:
“When does she usually nap?”
And eventually:
“I’m sorry. Please come home.”

But I wasn’t ready. I needed him to really get it. Not just say sorry because things were hard. So I stayed.

On day four, he called his sister, who has two kids. I watched her walk in with a diaper bag and an expression that said “rookie mistake.” She took charge. Showed him how to hold Kate during her gas fits. Told him babies can sense your panic. She even left a note on the fridge: “You got this, but barely.”

By day five, he wasn’t great—but he was trying. I watched him bounce Kate while humming some nonsense tune. I watched him google how to properly burp a baby (and fail, then try again). I watched him pace like I used to, sleep on the couch with one leg up to rock the bassinet.

That night, I cried a little. Not because I was sad. Because for the first time, I felt seen. Even if he didn’t say the words yet—I could feel it in how hard he was working.

When I finally walked through the front door on day seven, the house smelled faintly of spit-up and baby wipes. Jerett looked like a ghost. His eyes were red-rimmed.

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then just said, “I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “How was your week?”

He laughed—hollow, tired. “I don’t know how you did this for even one day without crying in a closet. I almost did. Twice.”

I smiled. “Oh, I did. Many times.”

He pulled me into a hug. “I was such an idiot. I thought you were just exaggerating. I thought—God—I really thought staying at home meant rest. But it’s… it’s war. Tiny, adorable war.”

We sat on the couch, and for the first time in months, we talked. Like really talked. About expectations. About dividing responsibilities. About how we both were tired, but mine came with isolation and crying and endless guessing games.

That night, he took the baby monitor into the guest room and let me sleep uninterrupted for eight hours. When I woke up, he made pancakes—burnt, but made with love.

—

It didn’t magically fix everything. Life didn’t turn into a parenting fairytale. But things got better. We hired a part-time nanny three days a week so I could breathe. Jerett started working from home two days a week to help. We began trading off nights when Kate wouldn’t sleep.

And most importantly—he never said I did “nothing” again. In fact, he bragged to his friends about how strong I was. How much work it really was. And once, I even overheard him say, “She’s a warrior. I couldn’t do what she does.”

And that meant everything.

The lesson? Don’t ever let someone else minimize your struggle just because it doesn’t look like theirs. Motherhood—especially in those early, foggy months—is a kind of labor that doesn’t clock out.

Sometimes, people need to live your shoes before they can understand the weight of them.

And sometimes, the only way to make someone see your worth… is to step away and let the silence speak.

If this story hit home for you, like it. Share it. Let someone else know they’re not alone.

You’re doing more than “something.”
You’re doing everything. 💛