I see you there, checking your phone again. Not because you’re distracted or rude, but because you’re always half-waiting for a text from your kid. Even if they’re at school or just in the other room.
I see you at family gatherings, smiling and nodding while simultaneously running calculations in your head. How long can we stay? Is this too much stimulation? Should I check on them? What’s our exit plan if this goes sideways?
I see you during these holiday weeks when school is out, and everyone else is posting about their magical family time. You’re over here just trying to navigate unstructured days, missing routines that kept things somewhat predictable, and hoping your child doesn’t completely unravel without that framework.
I See the Tired You Don’t Talk About
There’s the regular kind of tired, the kind that comes from busy days and full schedules. And then there’s this other kind. The kind that comes from always being on alert. Always watching. Always carrying this low-level hum of worry that never quite goes away, even on good days.
You wake up and immediately gauge the temperature of the house. Is everyone still asleep? Did they sleep okay? How’s today going to go? And before you’ve even had coffee, you’re already bracing yourself, already managing, already three steps ahead, trying to prevent problems before they start.
I see you reading articles at midnight about treatment options. Googling symptoms. Joining Facebook groups for parents of kids with anxiety, depression, ADHD, whatever your child is facing. Trying to learn enough to help, trying to do enough to make a difference, trying to figure out if you’re doing any of this right.
I see the texts you send to friends that you delete before hitting send. The ones that say “I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” or “I’m so tired,” or “I feel like I’m failing.” You delete them because you don’t want to complain, don’t want to burden anyone, don’t want to admit out loud how hard this actually is.
I See You During the Holidays
I see you explaining to relatives, again, that no, your child isn’t just being difficult. That this is real, this is medical, this isn’t about parenting or discipline or any of the things they keep suggesting. I see you biting your tongue when someone says “well, in my day…” or “have you tried just…”
I see you managing other people’s disappointment when your child doesn’t want to come to the holiday dinner, or does come but can’t stay long, or stays but has a hard time, and everyone notices. You’re caught between protecting your child and managing everyone else’s feelings about your child.
I see you letting go of traditions that aren’t working anymore, even though that loss hurts. Even though you imagined holidays differently. Even though watching other families do the things you can’t do right now feels like grief.
I see you trying to make this time special somehow while also just trying to survive it. These weeks with kids home from school, they stretch out ahead, and you’re already exhausted just thinking about them. How do you fill the days? How do you keep things calm? How do you be present and engaged when you’re already running on empty?
I See You Trying to Rest and Failing
I see you sitting down for a minute and immediately thinking of seventeen things you should be doing instead. I see you trying to relax and feeling guilty about it. Trying to take time for yourself and feeling selfish about it.
I see you scrolling through self-care advice that all sounds great in theory, but completely impossible in practice. Face masks and bubble baths and weekend getaways, sure, if you lived in a different reality where someone else could cover all the things you’re covering.
I see you stealing moments that barely count as moments. Sitting in the car in the driveway before going inside. Hiding in the bathroom for an extra minute. Staying up too late because it’s the only time the house is quiet, even though you desperately need sleep.
I see you meeting a friend for lunch and spending half of it checking your phone, apologizing, explaining, never fully able to be present because you can’t fully turn off.
I See What Nobody Else Sees
I see the work you do that’s invisible. The constant monitoring. The mental load of keeping track of medications and appointments and warning signs and triggers. The emotional labor of staying calm when your child is dysregulated. The advocacy work of fighting for services and accommodations, and just basic understanding.
I see you showing up day after day, even when you don’t know what you’re doing. Even when you’re scared. Even when you’re so tired you can barely think straight.
I see you loving your child fiercely while also struggling with how hard this is. Those two things exist together, and carrying both is exhausting.
I see you wondering if you’re doing enough. If you’re doing it right. If things will ever get easier. If you can sustain this level of intensity for much longer.
What I Wish For You
I wish you could feel, even for a moment, how much you’re already doing. Not as motivation to do more, but as permission to stop trying so hard to do more.
I wish you could sit down without guilt. Without your mind immediately jumping to the next thing. Without feeling like rest is something you have to earn.
I wish the holidays could feel a little lighter for you. I wish you could enjoy some part of them without also managing and monitoring, and bracing for impact.
I wish you had more people around you who really saw how hard this is. Who understood without you having to explain. Who offered help that was actually helpful instead of advice that misses the point entirely.
For This Week
You don’t need me to tell you what to do or how to make this easier. You’re already doing it. You’re already figuring it out as you go, making impossible decisions, showing up when you have nothing left.
What I want you to know is just… I see you. This is hard. You’re not imagining that. You’re not being dramatic. You’re not weak or failing or doing it wrong.
You’re parenting a child through something really difficult, during a season that’s already hard, while everyone around you expects joy and magic and togetherness.
If you find five minutes this week to just breathe, if you sit down with coffee before anyone wakes up, or step outside into the cold air, or say no to one thing without explaining why, that’s enough. You don’t need to optimize it or make it meaningful or turn it into proper self-care.
Just that moment of ease, however small, however imperfect. You deserve it. Not because you’ve earned it, but because you’re human and this is hard, and even tiny reprieves matter.
I see you. You’re doing so much more than anyone realizes. And it’s okay to be tired.
Laurie