Parental burnout is real – and we need to keep talking about it

It’s Maternal Mental Health Awareness Season, and every year I find myself reflecting on what that phrase actually means. My mind goes straight to postpartum depression, anxiety, maybe birth trauma – the topics we’re finally talking about more openly. But if I’m being honest, I’ve never experienced any of these, never ticked a box for diagnosis. 

What I have felt, though, is the relentless weight of mum exhaustion – the kind that creeps in quietly, builds slowly, and settles deep. The kind we’ve been taught to just crack on through, with a stiff upper lip. 

For a long time, I thought maternal mental health conversations weren’t really for me. Or they were for me, but more as an active, supportive listener. I didn’t have a ‘need’, or story to share.

But lately, I’ve had to rethink that.

Because something has been creeping into my parenting experience over the last few years. It’s not sadness exactly. Not depression, not even anxiety in its usual form. But a kind of resignation. That for the next twenty years (plus, plus), this is me now. Always a little frazzled and depleted. Happy – yes, really happy – and feeling b l e s s e d ofc. 

But really, really overwhelmed at times. Over-stimulated. Touched out and low in empathy (quite a feat for an empath). Super-organised, but on my knees as a result. Twisting my shoulder trying to buckle my child in. Never ‘buckled in’ myself. 

This, I’ve realised, is parental burnout.

And once it sets in, you need a toolkit. Problem is, that toolkit is a mental load in itself. My one fall-back is setting boundaries. More on that below.

Starting out (6 weeks early)

My journey into motherhood was a little rocky. I had repeat miscarriages before my daughter – my eldest – finally arrived, but six weeks early. I’d wanted to be a mum for so long, but I wasn’t ready, when it suddenly happened. Everyone says ‘you’re never ready’ but I disagree. Some people are, and I wasn’t. Not that day. 

That experience rewired me in ways I’m only just beginning to understand. From the moment my daughter was born, I’ve felt like I’m slightly on the back foot – I loved her to pieces and jumped in with both feet, trying to be the best mum I could be – but I was and still am always overdoing it by being endlessly available, organised, present, creative, grateful.

I say yes to everything. I try to make every moment magical. 

And that’s beautiful in some ways. I’m a brilliant mum. I know I am. My kids are happy, loved, filled with wonder, secure. But the flip side of always being “on” is that eventually, your battery just runs out.

And in parenting, there’s no plug socket in sight. My husband says, proudly and supportively, that I bring the ‘wonder’. But I know I can snuff it out in an instant, by letting my depletion show. And that’s scary, so I try (too hard) not to.

When adulting gets real

Last year, my eldest was diagnosed with a rare medical condition. She’s okay now – we’re managing it, carefully and consciously – but that moment cracked something open. Suddenly my role as a mother expanded to include endless medical admin, appointments, forms, blood tests, negotiations, explanations. I carry her health with me every moment of every day. It’s on me, always. No one else has the login, the overview, the full picture. Just me.

And here’s what I didn’t expect: that kind of load starts to hollow out your joy. Not your love – that’s still fierce and unwavering – but the sweetness. The ease. The part of motherhood that’s silly, spontaneous, soft.

I’ve missed that part. And that missing – that grief – is part of burnout, too. So boundaries, for me, include saying ‘no’ to some things, so I can bring it back. Recently I’ve felt I could really benefit from some talking therapy on this point. But getting started has felt like another ‘to-do’ – I will though. Promise.

What is parental burnout?

Burnout isn’t just for corporate workers. It’s not just deadlines and late nights and inboxes. It’s emotional depletion. And no one is more vulnerable to that than parents – especially mothers. Because this work is never done. There’s no out-of-office. No annual leave. No one else to pick up the slack.

Last week, I found myself deep in the Minecraft Experience – literally, guys, not metaphorically. It was super-fun and my kids were beside themselves with happiness. 

But it was also dark, immersive, hot, chaotic and I was on day two of my period (IYKYK), running on about 40  per cent, if that. I hadn’t eaten enough. I hadn’t had enough water. I was scraping by on fumes and good intentions. And when we got out the other side, and my daughter sweetly asked if she could paint my nails with the little bag she’d brought along, I just snapped.

I got so bitey. Not screaming, not dramatic – just flat, frayed, irritable. I said ‘no’ too sharply, watched her face fall, then felt that now-familiar wave of guilt crashing in. I wanted to be warm and open. Instead, I was wiped and touched out. That’s burnout, too.

It’s death by a thousand cuts: a late night here, a medical query there, a family WhatsApp that needs replying, a party to organise, an invisible to-do list that runs in the background of your brain, even in dreams.

And then you find yourself staring at your phone at 9pm, not even crying – just scrolling, blank.

Here’s the thing. I know I’m a good mum. I really do. I do crafts. I plan adventures. I show up. I listen. I apologise when I get it wrong. I build in little moments of joy, even when I’m tired. I keep going.

But even great mums burn out.

Even great mums need a break.

Even great mums say yes too much, snap at their kids, get touched out, wish for silence, dread school pick-up, wake up feeling numb on Christmas Day, or make up errands just for 20 minutes alone.

Parental burnout is real. And it is absolutely a maternal mental health issue.

So what are the signs?

According to the NHS and parental wellbeing groups like RDASH Doncaster Talking Therapies, the symptoms of parental burnout and mum exhaustion can include:

• Emotional detachment from your child
  
• Constant fatigue, no matter how much you rest
  
• Irritability or mood swings
  
• Feeling like a bad parent despite your efforts
  
• Difficulty concentrating or decision-making
  
• Fantasising about escape
  
• Shame, guilt, or numbness
  

It’s not about whether you “love your kids enough.” Burnout has nothing to do with love. I love my children with a full, fierce heart. But you can adore your kids and still find this relentless.

If I had a toolkit, this would be it

So how do we manage it? Here’s what’s been helping me lately – small things, but meaningful:

• Naming it. Saying “I’m burning out” is powerful. It removes the shame. You’re not weak. You’re overwhelmed.
• Letting your kids in. One of the best tips I’ve found? Tell your kids, before you hit rock bottom. In an age-appropriate way, obviously – for us, that means I say, calmly (or as calmly as I can manage), “Mummy’s battery is a bit low.” If things are spiralling, it might be more like, “Guys, my battery is on red and flashing.” But either way, it works. It doesn’t scare them. I haven’t lost it (yet), but they get it. They know the ice is thinning, and they adjust. The other day, I said it within earshot of my husband and he was amazed at how quickly the mood shifted. And, he immediately offered to do the school run on his way to the Tube. Win-win – everyone can use a reminder, after all.
• Letting go of the perfect picture. My kids don’t need daily magic. They need connection. Even five minutes of silly laughter. That’s enough.
• Rest that actually restores. Not scrolly rest. Real rest. Ten minutes in bed without your phone. A walk in silence. A podcast you love. A coffee alone.
• Lowering the bar. It’s okay if dinner is freezer pizza or yet another picky plate. It’s okay if bedtime was chaotic. If you broke a promise. You are not failing. You are mothering in the real world.
• Getting support. Whether it’s a friend, a partner, a therapist, or even just a group chat where you can vent, say what’s real. I’ve started doing this more – and the relief is huge.
• Future focus. It’s not always going to be like this. That thought helps me when I’m stuck, or ruminating. They won’t always need me this much. That’s sad and freeing at once.