I was forty years old when I returned to work after eight years as a stay-at-home mom. Those years at home were some of the most meaningful of my life. I took pride in creating a gentle structure for our days—morning outings, family naps, predictable rhythms that helped my kids thrive and allowed us the most downtime together on weekends. It was the life I had imagined for myself when I was young. It felt idyllic.
When my youngest went to kindergarten, I decided it was time for me to step back into the workforce. Instead of pursuing a career aligned with my degrees, I chose a position as a PE teacher because it offered something I valued deeply: balance. I loved the job from the start. It let me come home in the evenings with enough energy and mental space to be present with my family. For a while, it felt like the best of both worlds.
But as the months passed, the realities of working and momming simultaneously began to press in around the edges. My whole life, I had been called “hyperactive”—a label, not a diagnosis. I did well in school, so no one ever looked deeper. I never considered the possibility of ADHD. I just thought this was who I was: someone who moved quickly, thought quickly, reacted quickly, and carried a constant buzzing in my brain.
I had always been able to keep things together, even when stressed. So even when I started feeling overwhelmed, I assumed I could power through. During my second year back at work, I switched schools. I even gained more planning time in my schedule, but somehow everything still felt hard. The pace of life, the noise of the world around me, and the constant mental juggling act wore on me. The busyness that once energized me now triggered anxiety. My mind, always in motion, became a source of stress instead of strength.
I kept trying to manage it on my own. I kept assuming I just needed to try harder.
My husband started noticing the cracks before I did. Around Christmas one year, I made a couple of small mistakes with gifts—nothing major, but enough for him to look at me with frustration and, later, concern. He gently asked me to consider how my attention and busyness were affecting me and the people around me. That conversation nudged me to finally call my doctor. I was prescribed medication. I took it inconsistently. I wasn’t sure it made a difference, but I felt proud for at least taking that step.
Still, I stayed overwhelmed.
Still, I pushed through.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
It was a summer afternoon. I’d been frustrated with my kids, overwhelmed by chores and schedules and expectations, and generally doing too much. I ran to the store to grab snacks, squeezing one more task into an already overloaded day. As I backed out of my parking spot, I heard a crunch.
A car accident.
A small one—but it didn’t feel small to me.
It felt like the physical sound of all the internal pressure I had been ignoring for months. The busyness, the expectations, the mental weight I had been carrying alone—everything seemed to collide in that moment.
I jumped out of the car, apologized, exchanged information, and rushed off again to get my kids where they needed to be. Because that’s what I did: I kept going.
But the next day, I stopped.
I cleared my entire schedule and stayed home. I reflected on the past few years and realized how much of myself I had lost in the effort to be everything for everyone. I saw how long I had ignored the signs. And for the first time, I admitted that maybe this was something I couldn’t “fix” by trying harder.
There was no shame in that.
There is no shame in that.
As I prepared for the next school year, I did so with a new perspective—one that placed my mental health at the center, not the margins. I never used to think of ADHD as a mental health issue. I do now. And I’m learning that support exists. Help exists. Life doesn’t have to feel this hard.
This isn’t the end of the story. I’m still learning, still adjusting, still unlearning the belief that I must hold everything together alone. But this is the moment that changed my direction. And maybe, if you’ve been feeling overwhelmed or “too busy” for too long, it can be a reminder for you, too:
You don’t have to carry the weight alone.
And there is no shame in asking for help.
