The strange loneliness of a touched out Mum

We’ve all been there, whether you have one kid or multiple. You’re at the end of your tether, you need five minutes to regulate yourself without someone crawling all over you and yet, that’s the core defining expectation of your role as Mum. Nurture, care, love - everyone, except yourself most of the time. Not only is it overstimulating, it’s isolating. I’m told there are millions of mums out there feeling the same way but it doesn’t make scraping through the exhaustion and isolation any easier.

Why do so many mums feel alone when we’re constantly surrounded by people who need us? I don’t know the universal answer, but I’m going to try to figure out my own. 

Getting everything you ever wanted 

I couldn’t wait for my babies to arrive. Not just to move past the pregnancy pains but to have the cuddles I daydreamed about. I’d imagine holding my first child - images of myself as a mum holding a brand new tiny little baby gave me this otherworldly type of peace. When she arrived, she delivered on all of that and more. What I conveniently left out of my daydreams were the tantrums, her needing to be held during the most inconvenient times and refusing to stay asleep unless we were in constant physical contact. I was so affectionate towards my husband, annoyingly so at times, that I thought constant cuddles with a baby would be not only easy work, it would be delightful. I wasn’t wrong but I wasn’t all the way right either. 

For months I pushed back the thoughts in my head that screamed for space. Because I thought not wanting to be with my baby 24/7 made me a bad mum. Not wanting to be the one to calm her down every time she cried made me cruel. Not wanting to be the first person she saw after every nap made me neglectful. Not wanting to hold her while I was simultaneously cooking dinner and folding washing made me lazy. It’s not that I didn’t want her around, because I was actually obsessed with her. But I still needed space.

With time, the constant touch, giving so much and depleting my own reserves for months transformed me from glowing new mum to mum rage case study. 

All touched out and nowhere to go 

The mum rage didn’t just come out of nowhere. It compounded. Day afterday, the need for my daughter to always be held, giving a whole new meaning to velcro baby, wore me down like a favourite pair of shoes that desperately needed to be re-soled. Glimpses of rage would peek out when I would usually keep it together. First it was my tone. Then came volume. Along came negative body language joining the party. Until finally full on explosions took over. I was touched out, and sleep deprived while failing at the steepest learning curve I’ve ever attempted - motherhood. My failing nervous system, mental health and physical willingness coordinated moments of complete implosion. 

I made a promise to myself to not give my daughter the full song and dance of my demise. But even with the best of intentions, that pot boiled over enough times that she witnessed her own mother’s melt downs whilst in the midst of her own. I still feel guilt, shame and disgust in myself for that. That’s where my loneliness came from. 

I didn’t tell my husband about my mum rage because I was ashamed. He’d come home and ask “How was your day my darling?” and I’d say “Oh you know, hard, but pretty good.” I told myself I wasn’t lying because I’d mentioned it was hard but really I was lying by omission. Hard was the understatement of my life. What I should have said was hardest - “It was the hardest day of my life - again”. But ego is a hell of a thing and even in my isolation, my pride was too hurt to take more of a beating by admitting how I was struggling with motherhood, even to my loving husband. 

So, that’s where I was. In a tiny two bedroom apartment, alone with a baby at my feet, screaming and clawing at my legs to be picked up for the 26th time today. All that, and it’s only midmorning. Hands on my hips, staring at the ceiling through tear filled eyes, trying desperately to take deep breaths into my belly and running through the collection of affirmations random Instagram accounts had sworn worked for them. Alone, struggling, drowning and screamed at.

There’s alone, and then there’s lonely

I’ve been alone plenty in my life. From 17 I was fending for myself in a lot of ways with divorcing parents, high school coming to an end and my adult life on the brink. By 18 I was independent in every sense of the word. I was financially support myself and had my own house (rental house, I’m not some prodigy  buying their first property before they get their driver license, relax). At 20 I moved from my small home town in New Zealand to Melbourne, Australia. Alone in a new city and a new country. That was my first taste of loneliness. 

Years later I’d gained multiple groups of friends, be a social butterfly and live my 20s the way I envisioned. Working, partying and recovering just in time to repeat it all the next week. I didn’t realise it, but that was a lonely experience too. Surrounded by people but somehow you’re still alone. All of the partying became futile and destructive. At 23 I became an alcoholic. Drinking daily, draining two 24 packs of Coronas at home each week complemented with two or three sessions at pubs and shots while clubbing on the weekends. I drowned myself to the point of not even recognising the loneliness because the drink in my hand always kept me company. 

It took some incredibly toxic romantic relationships to knock some sense into me. I kicked the alcoholism in the butt and took up a new addiction in the form of the gym and sport. This was during the ‘women are competition’ phase, which came before the ‘women empowering women’ phase we now find ourselves in with fitness and sports. With the exception of a handful of women, it was very difficult to find friends. I longed to have close girlfriends that I could share the new non-alcoholic version of my life with but sport breeds competition which isn’t particularly conducive to real female friendships. Even in my rehabilitated world, being lonely was a brand I couldn’t escape - and trying harder only made things worse. 

Lone Ranger finds a compadre 

Meeting my husband was my saving grace. In terms of keeping his circle small, this guy took minimalism to a new level. He only invested time and effort into people he truly respected and loved. Seeing that gave me permission to do the same. My circle shrunk considerably and I didn’t feel like I was missing out for it. I built closer relationships with the people I cared for most and have kept those friendships to this day. 

When I became a mum my biggest problem was not wanting to ask for help. Experience in all types of relationships, family, friendships, romantic - they taught me that everyone will eventually let you down in catastrophic ways. When I was having catastrophic meltdowns during my first year postpartum, it felt more dangerous to reach out to others than to feel lonely. Lonely I knew. Lonely had ironically, kept my company on many occasions. But lonely had never felt like this before. What made it worse is my loneliness was impacting my own daughter. 

I’d love to say I turned the corner then and there, did the hard thing and got the help. I didn’t. I suffered through it until it stopped feeling like suffering but just became a new reality. I got pregnant with our second child nine months postpartum, so there wasn’t any time to unpack my bullshit. I had to sack up and prepare for baby number two.I was an idiot. That was the perfect time to get my shit sorted. Loneliness and mum rage doesn’t get better with exposure therapy. I was doing everything the hardest way possible and something was bound to break. 

Road map out of isolation 

Call me crazy (you wouldn’t be the first - or last for that matter) but I think asking for help isn’t the first step. I think I should figure out why I don’t ask for help. I see this step like emptying the cupboard under the kitchen sink - unclogging the pipe is the actual task but you can’t get there until you get things out of the way to do it. 

The core of my issue is feeling uncomfortable with asking for help because I lack trust. Trust that I won’t be hurt and that the person helping me knows what the hell they’re doing as well. That’s honestly just my arrogance speaking. Because I can intellectualise the situation, I think I know better. I think because I can come up with the solution that I can also  execute it and give balanced feedback when in reality I can’t. So, I gotta keep my ego in check and have faith that whoever the professional is that I get help from is far more qualified than me. I just have to stop being a know-it-all. My mum used to call me ‘know-it-all know-nothing’ as a kid, clearly not much has changed. 

Now I have two kids, and I feel that mum rage festering soI want to simmer it down before it blows over. Now I know what my problem is (trust issues, arrogance and ego - what a delightful winning combo, said no one ever), it’s time to do the admin to get the help. Book the GP appointment. Painstakingly rehearse the conversation with the doctor over in my head 142 times before actually having it (only for it to be far less intense and dramatic than my rehearsals). Claim my golden ticket, otherwise known as a referral. And last but not least (literally not least since it’s the entire point of everything leading up to this), book the first session with whoever the mental health professional will be. I’ll mentally prepare myself to stand emotionally naked in front of a stranger while asking for their help. Even the thought of that makes me want to cry right now but I’ve gotta do the hard things to get anywhere with this type of thing.

It won’t be easy. It won’t be simple. It won’t be linear. But it’s a start. Because this loneliness in the midst of a family who constantly needs me wasn’t on my bingo card for 2026, so good riddance.