The Comforting Mum

Being a single Black mother often means carrying more than your fair share of emotional, mental, and physical weight — quietly, and without complaint. It means showing up every day for your children even when your world is unraveling. It means trying to stay afloat in a system that wasn’t built to support you. And it means that mental health, though crucial, often becomes something you put last.

I know this because I’ve lived it.

After losing my home and enduring constant conflict with my children’s father, my mental health crumbled beneath the weight. I was diagnosed with severe depression and placed on medication just to get through the day. I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. I was moving through the days like a shadow — always doing, never feeling. There were moments I felt like I was drowning, all while still being expected to cook, clean, show up for work, raise two children, and pretend everything was fine.

But everything wasn’t fine. And that’s what makes this journey so isolating. There is a unique pain in having to stay strong because you feel like you have no other option. There is a silence that follows you when you’re expected to “just get on with it.” As Black women, we’re often told we’re resilient — and while that may be true, it doesn’t mean we aren’t hurting. It doesn’t mean we don’t need help.

There were nights I cried myself to sleep, not knowing how I would face the next day. Days I felt numb while holding my babies close, wondering how I was going to keep going. Anxiety was always in the background — whispering lies, clouding my joy, stealing my peace. And burnout? That became my normal.

But slowly, piece by piece, I’ve started to reclaim parts of myself. I’ve learned to be honest about how I feel, even if the world tells me to be quiet. I’ve learned to reach out when I need help, to breathe when it all feels too heavy, and to rest — without guilt.

I’m still on this journey. I still have bad days. But I no longer suffer in silence. I’m learning to treat my mind with the same tenderness I give my children. Because I deserve healing, too. I’ve also joined a mom’s group chat.

Sometimes strength looks like getting out of bed when everything in you wants to stay hidden. It looks like wiping away tears in the mirror and whispering to yourself, “I’m still here.”
If you’re reading this and you feel seen — know that you’re not alone. You are not broken. You are not weak. You are human. And your story, even with all its cracks, is still unfolding in strength.

Affirmation

“My emotions are valid. My pain is real. But so is my healing. I give myself permission to rest, to feel, and to grow — one breath at a time.”