I was still their mother.
That was the sentence I repeated to myself more than any other.
I woke them up. I fed them. I bathed them. I held them when they cried. From the outside, nothing looked broken enough to raise alarms. The routine stayed intact, and in my mind, that meant I was winning.
Addiction loves routines.They're camouflage.
I told myself that as long as my children were safe, as long as they laughed, as long as they didn't see me fall apart, then the rest didn't matter. I could carry the weight quietly. I could compartmentalize. I could be strong.
But motherhood isn't just presence.It's awareness.
And mine was slipping.
I began to notice moments where I was there—but not with them. My body moved through the motions while my mind was elsewhere, counting minutes, planning exits, bargaining with myself about how long I could hold out before I needed relief again.
They would talk to me, their voices soft and hopeful, and I would respond on instinct instead of intention. Smiles without depth. Nods without listening. Love without clarity.
I still loved them.That never faded.
But love distorted by dependence becomes something else—something thinner, stretched, fragile.
There were days I felt invincible. Like I was juggling everything perfectly, balancing chaos on my shoulders without letting it spill onto them. On those days, I believed I had proven everyone wrong.
Then there were the other days.
The days where my patience ran out faster than my excuses. Where exhaustion sat heavy behind my eyes and every sound felt too loud, too sharp. Where I snapped—not because of them, but because I had nothing left to give.
I would see it in their faces first.
Confusion.Hesitation.That quiet pause before asking for something—like they were measuring whether I was safe to approach.
That was when guilt stopped whispering and started screaming.
I promised myself tomorrow would be different. That I would be better. That I would rest, reset, regain control.
But control had already learned how to wait me out.
Motherhood became a performance I was terrified to fail. I learned how to hide the cracks with practiced ease—how to function just well enough to avoid questions, how to explain away bad days, how to convince myself that survival counted as success.
And for a while, that lie worked.
Until it didn't.
Because children don't need perfection.
They need presence.
And presence was the first thing it took from me that I couldn't pretend not to notice.