Motherhood Is The Loneliest Lonely Though You’re Never Alone

“No one’s coming to save you,” I reminded myself as I wiped a tear from my cheek and pressed on. I stopped thinking of who I could call this late at night — could anyone help? Alas, the darkness had swept this summer night sky and the vast feeling of emptiness gripped my chest and held tight.

I looked out the window at the sea of dark homes around me. No one was awake but us. Me and my kids. My eyes burned from the living room lights working overtime, the tears blurring the edges.

Motherhood is the loneliest lonely though you’re never alone.

No one sees you.
No one hears you.

I take a deep breath and start again; repeating the same things over and over again til my words start to jumble together to form new nonsensical ones: “Please go to bed… Please-go-to-bed…. plsgotobed.”

Nighttime is the hardest time to be a mom. Our energy is long gone, while our kids get this renewed push to keep going. A last hurrah. An encore no one asked for.

We know the house will be quiet soon, and we long for those few moments of silence, but they’re just out of reach, like a winding road where you’re certain the destination is just beyond this next turn. Or maybe the next. Any minute now.

We see the other houses in the neighborhood begin to darker as our home seemingly grows brighter; who turned on the office light? Why is the pantry light on now?

We look out the window and we feel lonely. Is anyone else out there? Does anyone else see me? Would anyone pick up the phone if I called now? I need someone to save me.

And finally, darkness slowly envelopes our home til all that’s left is the soft, rhythmic breaths of sleeping children. Our chest softens. Our jaw unclenches.

And for the first time all night, we don’t feel lonely anymore. Because nighttime heard our call. It came just in time. It saved us.