A woman turns to her journal as an escape from exhaustion, loneliness, and self-doubt. But as the months pass, her words begin to reveal something unexpected—change.
January 3, 2024 – The First Entry
Dear Diary,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because no one listens when I speak. Or maybe because if I don’t put my thoughts somewhere, they’ll swallow me whole.
I am so tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix. The kind that makes my bones ache, that turns every task into a mountain.
I woke up today at 5 a.m. to the sound of my son whining because his sister took the last pancake. My husband, Jake, walked into the kitchen, grabbed his coffee, kissed the top of my head, and said, “See you later, babe.” Then he was gone.
He didn’t notice the dishes piled in the sink. Didn’t ask how I slept. Didn’t even see me.
By noon, I was knee-deep in work emails, trying to meet a deadline while also folding laundry. The toddler screamed because she wanted my attention. The older one pouted because I said no to cookies before lunch. I snapped. I yelled. And the second I did, guilt crashed over me like a tidal wave.
What kind of mother yells at her kids for just being kids?
By bedtime, I stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back.
When did I stop being… me?”
January 18, 2024 – Breaking Point
Dear Diary,
I lost it today.
Jake came home late again. Walked past the pile of laundry again. Scrolled on his phone while I cleaned up dinner again.
And then my mother-in-law, Doris, called.
“You sound exhausted, dear,” she said, her voice dripping with false concern. “Maybe if you weren’t so overwhelmed, you’d keep the house a little tidier. Jake works so hard—he shouldn’t have to come home to a mess.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that her son hadn’t so much as wiped a counter in years. But instead, I bit my tongue and said, “You’re right, Doris. I’ll try harder.”
Then I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and cried until my head ached.
Why does no one see how much I do?
February 2, 2024 – A Small Gesture
Dear Diary,
Something strange happened today.
I had just put the baby down for a nap when there was a knock at the door. For a moment, I debated ignoring it—probably another delivery I forgot I ordered. But when I opened it, there stood Mrs. Patel, my neighbor, holding a loaf of banana bread wrapped in a dish towel.
“I made too much,” she said with a kind smile. “Thought you and the little ones might like some.”
For a second, I didn’t know what to say. No one ever just… shows up for me.
I mumbled a thank you, took the warm loaf, and watched as she walked back to her house, humming a tune I didn’t recognize.
I sat at the table and tore off a piece, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla filling the air. The first bite melted on my tongue, and before I knew it, I was crying. Silent tears, slipping down my cheeks and onto the wooden table.
I wasn’t crying because of the bread. Not really. I was crying because, for the first time in months, I felt… noticed.
She doesn’t know it, but that bread saved me today.
March 10, 2024 – When Friends Disappear
Dear Diary,
I reached out to Claire today. We used to be inseparable—brunches, late-night calls, laughing until we cried. But ever since I became a “boring mom,” she’s been distant.
“Hey! Want to grab coffee this weekend?” I texted.
An hour later: “Can’t. Super busy. Let’s catch up soon!”
That was the same answer she gave three months ago.
I guess when your life revolves around diapers and deadlines, some friends just… fade.”
April 20, 2024 – Choosing Myself (For Once)
Dear Diary,
I signed up for a yoga class today. I almost didn’t go. Guilt told me I should be home making dinner, but then I thought—when was the last time I did something just for me?
So I went. And for one whole hour, I existed without being needed.
I forgot what that felt like.”
May 15, 2024 – Money, Money, Money
Dear Diary,
I checked our bank account today.
Why is there always more month left than money?
Jake and I had another fight. “We need to cut back,” I said. “Groceries are insane, and the kids need new shoes.”
He sighed. “Then stop ordering takeout.”
I wanted to throw something. How does he not see that I work full-time, take care of the house, and keep everything running? I order takeout because by the time dinner rolls around, I have nothing left to give.
I don’t think he understands how close I am to breaking.”
June 5, 2024 – A Hard Conversation
Dear Diary,
Tonight, something shifted.
Jake was watching me across the dinner table, his fork idly pushing peas around his plate. Normally, he’d be scrolling through his phone, lost in emails or sports updates. But tonight, he was watching me. Really watching.
“I feel like you’re different lately,” he said finally. “Happier, I guess. But also… distant.”
I kept my eyes on my plate. I didn’t trust myself to look up.
“I was drowning, Jake,” I whispered. “And you didn’t even notice.”
Silence settled between us, thick and heavy. I braced myself for defensiveness, for an excuse, for a tired “You should have told me.” But none came.
Instead, he sighed, running a hand over his face. “I think… I did notice. But if I admitted it, I’d have to admit I should’ve done something.”
That made me look up. His shoulders were slumped, his usual confidence replaced with something raw.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, voice low. “But I want to try. I need to try.”
And for the first time in a long time, I felt hope—not in the grand, sweeping way I used to dream of, but in the quiet way a single ember can spark a fire.
I don’t know if I believe him yet. But maybe, just maybe, we can figure it out together.
September 17, 2024 – The Health Scare
Dear Diary,
I woke up on the floor today.
One second, I was chopping vegetables for dinner, and the next, everything went dark.
I woke up to Jake shaking me, panic in his voice. “Sarah, wake up! What’s wrong?”
At the hospital, the doctor asked, “When was the last time you had a full meal? Or a full night’s sleep?”
I didn’t have an answer.
“Your body is shutting down,” he said. “Stress, exhaustion, poor nutrition—it’s all catching up to you. If you don’t start taking care of yourself, this will happen again. And next time, it might be worse.”
Lying in that hospital bed, I thought about my kids. My husband. My life.
I don’t want to keep surviving. I want to live.”
October 22, 2024 – A Life I Want to Live
Dear Diary,
I forgot what it felt like to have energy. To wake up without the weight of exhaustion pressing down on my chest.
It’s been over a month since the hospital. Since the doctor looked at me with quiet concern and told me my body was failing me before I even had the chance to fight for it. But I listened. I started eating properly, sleeping more, allowing myself to stop without guilt clawing at me.
And tonight, I realized just how much has changed.
The kids were finishing up dinner, crumbs everywhere, their laughter filling the kitchen as their favorite song came on the radio. A few months ago, I would have sighed at the mess, ushered them to bed, and spent the rest of the night cleaning up alone.
But tonight? Tonight, I danced.
There was no reason, no special occasion—just music and movement and the sheer joy of being here. I twirled my daughter in my arms while my son spun wildly beside us, all of us laughing, breathless, alive.
Six months ago, I wouldn’t have had the energy for this. A year ago, I wouldn’t have even noticed the moment at all.
I don’t want to just survive anymore.
I want to live.
December 25, 2024 – A Christmas of Firsts
Dear Diary,
This morning, as I sipped my coffee, a letter arrived in the mail. It was from Claire.
“Sarah, I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me, but I need to say this. I pulled away from you when you needed me most. And not because I didn’t care—but because I didn’t know how to. I felt like I was losing you to a world I couldn’t understand. And honestly? I was jealous. You had a family, and I had no one. I never stopped thinking about you, though. I just didn’t know how to come back. But if you’ll have me, I’d love to try.”
I sat there, stunned. Then I picked up my phone and sent a single text: “Let’s get coffee.”
A year ago, I would have held onto anger. But now? I know that people mess up. And sometimes, they find their way back.
Later, at Christmas dinner, Doris surprised me.
“You look… happy, dear,” she said, her voice softer than I’d ever heard. “I think I misjudged how much you do.”
I almost choked on my mashed potatoes. Was this a compliment? From Doris? It wasn’t an apology, not exactly. But it was something.
And then, after everyone left and the kids were in bed, I sat with Jake by the fire, hands wrapped around a cup of cocoa.
“I need to tell you something,” I said. “I put in my notice at work.”
Jake blinked. “Wait… what?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m done running on empty. I want to start something for me—something that matters. I’m launching a blog for moms who feel like I did. I don’t know if it’ll work, but I need to try.”
His eyes softened. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
I smiled.
A year ago, I would have laughed at the idea of starting over. But today, I know better.
I am not just a wife. Not just a mother. Not just a machine running on obligation.
I am here. I am whole.
January 3, 2025 – One Year Later
Dear Diary,
A year ago today, I sat at this same kitchen table, exhausted and invisible. I wrote my first entry, wondering when I had stopped being… me.
I remember staring at my reflection, barely recognizing the woman looking back.
This morning, I stood in front of that same mirror. And for the first time in years, I saw myself again.
Not just a mother. Not just a wife. Not just a woman constantly giving, giving, giving without remembering to keep something for herself.
I am Sarah. And I am still here.
I used to think happiness was something you either had or didn’t. That some women were just built to be better wives, better mothers, better at life.
I was wrong.
Happiness isn’t a destination. It isn’t found in grand gestures or a perfect life. It’s in small, ordinary moments. The smell of fresh banana bread. A child’s sleepy “I love you.” The way the sun feels on your skin after a long winter.
Like today—when Mrs. Patel knocked on my door. Only this time, I was the one holding the banana bread.
“I made too much,” I told her with a smile.
She doesn’t know it, but she saved me once. And today, I got to return the kindness.
Later, Jake walked into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, then grinned. “Or should I cook?”
I laughed. A year ago, the idea of Jake voluntarily cooking would’ve been laughable. Now, it’s normal.
This morning, I also sat down to write my first post for my blog.
It’s terrifying. Exciting. Completely new.
A year ago, I thought I had lost myself. But maybe, I was never lost—just buried under expectations, exhaustion, and fear.
Today, I chose myself.
And that is enough.
Did you relate to Sarah’s journey? Life’s challenges can feel overwhelming, but even the smallest moments of kindness and self-care can change everything. Share your thoughts, your own experiences, or pass this along to someone who might need it. And for more stories that resonate, visit PodiumExpress.com!
