I Didn’t Have Permission to Fall Apart

 

It was Friday morning, back in the big city where my anxiety constantly feeds its roots from everything around me. I was in an important Zoom meeting — one I needed to focus on and take notes during.

My mother was at home working too, trying to help with my three-year-old. But he had different plans.

He was difficult that morning. Hitting my laptop. Wanting attention. Being loud.

I couldn’t handle it.

I felt like a bad mother — someone who couldn’t even raise a good child. I felt that everything concerning him was entirely on me. It had already been two weeks of runny noses and tissues all over the house. The workload was extreme, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

And then I crashed — like a wave against a rock.

My body started shaking. My lungs felt like they were screaming. I was falling into pieces.

I hated losing control.
And yet, it was liberating to let it all out.

I was furious that the entire mental load felt like it was on me. When I say I don’t receive help, I don’t mean with the dishes. I mean with the decisions. The choices. The invisible weight of knowing that if one day something goes wrong, there will be someone to blame — and that someone will be me.

I wanted to get up and leave.
To start walking without direction.
Looking for nothing and no one.
Just to be alone and gather the scattered pieces of myself.

I didn’t fall apart because of the noise.
I fell apart because I felt useless. Incapable. Not good enough.

I grew up hearing words that made me question my value.
Words that stayed longer than they should have.
Words that turned into rules.

I believed I had to prove my worth constantly.
That if I slowed down, it would only confirm what was already believed about me.

So I learned not to fall apart.
I learned to perform.
To hold everything together.
To never give anyone the chance to say,
“See? I told you.”

I don’t regret it.

That voice shaped me.
It pushed me.
It made me strong.

But it also made me believe I didn’t have permission to fall apart.

If my boy falls apart one day,
I will tell him:

Cry.
Scream.
Let it out.
Take time to heal.
Gather your strength.
And then move forward.

You have the right to feel tired.
You have the right to feel exhausted.
You have the right to feel unsatisfied.

You have the right to be weak for a while.
To reevaluate.
To express your feelings.

Because that’s how you grow.
That’s how you love yourself.
And only then can you give more to others.

Maybe I didn’t have permission to fall apart.

But he will.