I became a single parent three, nearly four years ago. My children were just two and five at the time — still babies in so many ways. And anyone who has children knows: those early years are relentless.
Like every parent, I watched my children, compared them with others, and told myself the same lies and half-truths we all do. “Other children don’t melt down like this… it must just be mine.” But the truth is, over the years, at playgroups, playgrounds, and birthday parties, you do see other kids unravel. You do see their tantrums and meltdowns. And yet, even with that perspective, I knew my two were different.
Both of my children are high-energy, strong-willed, ambitious, confident, sassy. Headstrong. They are firecrackers, just like I was. But here’s the thing: I don’t just have one of them. I have two. And on top of that comes the emotional fallout of divorce — not the amicable kind, but the kind laced with trauma, separation, and long stretches when they couldn’t see their father.
It’s been four years, and we’re still living with the aftershocks.
And some days, especially in the holidays, I feel it most. Don’t get me wrong — I love the holidays. I see my kids more, spend real time with them. But it’s exhausting. I’m the cook, the cleaner, the referee, the entertainer, the organiser, the chauffeur. All of it, every day, without pause, without someone to share the load.
The to-do list is endless. Keep the kitchen clean. Stay on top of the laundry. Mow the lawn. Wash the car. Do the garden. Feed the dog. Feed the children. And somehow, fit in exercise, because without it I know my mood will crash even lower. I try to keep the list gentle — just small daily habits that keep me afloat. And most days, that works.
But then there are days like today.
Today, I collapsed on the floor after a short workout, just breathing deeply, completely done in. The house was clean, the jobs were ticked off, but I felt utterly beaten down by the sheer constancy of it all. That’s the reality of single parenting: no matter how much you do, you’re always carrying the weight alone.
And it’s lonely.
There’s no one to bounce ideas off. No one to vent to. No one to share the little daily wins with, or to step in when you just can’t anymore. No one to give you that hug, that comfort that says: you’re not doing this alone. And that absence is like a hole — a vacuum that swallows joy and leaves only emptiness.
Even after four years, the burden doesn’t feel lighter. Some days I think I’m all cried out. Other days, I want to cry but the tears won’t come. Instead, it’s just that heaviness — the loneliness, the exhaustion, the ache of knowing that this is all on me.
And yet, even in the lowest moments, I know I have to be careful. Resentment is a slow poison, and it kills the one who drinks it. I don’t want that in my heart. I don’t want bitterness to spill over onto my children. On days like today, I need strength that doesn’t come from me — mentally, physically, or spiritually. I forget to pray when I most need it. But when I do, it reminds me that even in this lonely place, I’m not alone.
It is hard. It is lonely. It is relentless. But it’s also real. And sometimes, naming the reality out loud is the only way through.
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Four years on, the burden doesn’t feel lighter. I’ve simply learned how to function better beneath the weight of it. Survival has its own rhythm — but it’s not the same as freedom, or joy, or ease.
And then there’s the other ache: loneliness. I am desperate not to be alone, and yet the reality of meeting someone feels impossibly far away.
The hurdles come one after another:
• First, even meeting someone — with my trust issues, trauma, and the long road of healing still ongoing.
• Then, time. My life is already crammed with work, parenting, and the everyday grind of running a home. Where is there space for love?
• Then, faith — a non-negotiable part of my heart and life, which narrows the pool even further.
• Then, the complexities of emotional attachment itself. After years of survival mode, the thought of opening my heart again feels both hopeful and terrifying.
• And only then — if all of that was somehow overcome — there are the children. How to introduce them? How to protect them? How to shield them from the ripple effect of another adult walking in and perhaps one day walking out?
• And hovering over it all: the shadow of the narcissistic ex, the fallout, the battles I simply don’t have the capacity to fight.
It feels like dark waters — murky, uncertain, an abyss that I’d rather not swim in. And so I shut it down, again and again. Because I don’t have the energy. Not now.
But shutting it down doesn’t stop the loneliness. If anything, it magnifies it. And that hopelessness sometimes threatens to take over on days like today.
I promised myself when I started writing these posts that I wouldn’t sugar-coat any of this. So here it is: the real, raw, unedited journey of single parenting.
If this resonates with you — and I know it will for some — please know you’re not alone. I’d love to connect with you on my website or social media. Because in solidarity, we stand stronger.
To every parent, but especially to the mommas holding the fort — the ones who crumble on the kitchen floor, who are wrung out, overspent, exhausted, and yet who somehow rise the next day to do it all again — I see you. My heart goes out to you. You are warriors. Your crown is waiting. Your royal robe is already wrapped around you, even if you can’t feel it yet.
And so I pray: for strength, for hope, and not just to get through the last weeks of the holidays, but to actually enjoy them. To find small moments of joy in the chaos.
Much love,
MumDoc
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