The Moment I Knew I Needed Help
How a breakdown in a parking lot led me back to myself.
I wasn’t planning to write this. Honestly, I debated whether I even had the emotional energy to revisit what the last few months have felt like. But something in me knows that these are the stories that need telling the most. The ones we often keep buried under curated posts and polite smiles.
This isn’t a polished piece tied up with a happy ending. It’s a tender offering from the middle of the mess. From the space between breakdown and breakthrough. From a mama who’s still healing, still figuring it out, and still learning what it means to choose herself without guilt.
So if you’re here reading this, thank you. Whether you’re deep in your own unraveling or just catching your breath between waves, I hope my words remind you that you’re not alone. That your healing matters. That softness is strength too.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how many of us are walking around carrying way too much. Smiling through the weight, powering through the pain, and holding it down for everyone but ourselves. We manage school schedules, work expectations, meals, errands, and emotional labor yet somehow, we’re expected to stay composed. Polished. Strong.
I’ve been one of those people, especially lately. Maybe you have too.
It wasn’t until I found myself spiraling in a random store parking lot—hands trembling, eyes swollen with tears, my partner beside me in silence, my infant crying behind me—that I knew something had to change. I had reached my limit. Words were exchanged. Very strong words, the kind you can’t unsay. But they were real, raw, and necessary.
What unraveled in that moment had been building for months, maybe even years. The pressure of being a mother, a partner, a dreamer. The weight of past trauma I hadn’t fully processed. The lingering effects of postpartum hormones. I had been carrying all of it with a smile on my face and silence on my lips. I told myself I was fine. I told everyone else I was fine. But the truth was, I was quietly falling apart.
That moment in the car wasn’t the first time I had broken down, but it was the loudest. The most public. The one I couldn’t hide from or shove into the back of my mind. And in the wreckage of that breakdown, one truth cut through all the noise: I am not okay. I can’t fake it anymore.
It’s one thing to feel off. It’s another to feel yourself slipping and not know how to stop it. It’s terrifying. Humbling. And also, strangely clarifying.
That night, after I finally caught my breath and the tears dried, I sat in the quiet and realized something had to give—and that something couldn’t be me. I needed support—not just love from the people around me, but real, structured, intentional help. Medical help. Emotional help. Spiritual grounding.
I called my doctor the very next day. We talked about everything—my mood, my sleep, my rage, my hopelessness. We adjusted my meds. I cried again. But this time, the tears were softer. More surrendered. Because truthfully? That surrender saved me.
Resting My Way Back to Myself
Since that breakdown, I’ve been on a slow journey back to myself. Not the self I used to be before motherhood or before postpartum depression swallowed me whole. She doesn’t exist anymore. And honestly, I’m not trying to return to her.
I’m learning to love this “new” self. The one who is rising from the wreckage with gentleness and intention. The one who knows her limits. Who values her sanity. Who is unlearning the need to perform strength for people who aren’t paying attention anyway.
One of the most healing things I’ve done is rest. Not scrolling-in-bed "rest" or numbing-myself-with-Netflix rest, but real, soul-soothing rest. (Although, I’ve found a bit of joy in “bloom-scrolling”). Sitting on the couch with a cup of tea and nothing to do. Letting the dishes sit in the sink. Permitting myself to not be productive every second of the day.
As someone who grew up watching the women in my family never stop, rest feels radical. My grandmother worked until her hands ached. My mother served and sacrificed and poured from an empty cup. I internalized that as love. As womanhood. But now I know: burnout is not a badge of honor. Exhaustion is not a love language.
I want to teach my children that rest is not laziness. It’s survival. It’s sacred. It’s necessary.
Writing as Medicine
In this healing season, I’ve also returned to writing. Not the pressurized kind. Not the algorithm-chasing, deadline-driven kind. But the kind that allows me to exhale. To bleed gently onto the page and make sense of my inner world. Writing has always been how I meet myself, how I untangle my thoughts, how I remember who I am beneath the roles I play.
I’ve been letting go of the idea that every piece has to be perfect. Every journal entry has to become content. That every sentence has to make sense to someone else. Lately, I’m just writing for me. When I want. How I want. With softness. With honesty.
Some days, the words don’t come. Other days, they pour like a river. I no longer force it. I just show up when I can. And in doing so, I’ve found parts of myself I thought I lost.
The Long Road of Postpartum
Postpartum has been one of the most difficult and misunderstood seasons of my life. It isn’t just about sleepless nights or the physical changes that linger—it’s about the identity shift. The hormonal chaos. The mental fog. The isolation. The grief of losing your old self while trying to keep a new human alive.
We don’t talk enough about how long postpartum lasts. It’s not just six weeks. It’s not just the fourth trimester. For some of us, it’s years of crawling back to stability. For some of us, our bodies bounce back before our minds ever do. We look “fine” on the outside, but inside, we’re floating in survival mode—disconnected, overstimulated, emotionally fried.
There were days I felt like I was losing my mind. Nights when I sobbed quietly while nursing. Mornings when I fantasized about disappearing…not because I didn’t love my family, but because I was drowning in invisible expectations. The pressure to be everything for everyone, all the time, was suffocating.
But here’s what changed: I didn’t disappear this time. I didn’t go silent. I didn’t shut everyone out.
I asked for help.
And that decision? It changed everything.
Letting the Light In Again
Now that I’m feeling more stable—emotionally, hormonally, spiritually—I’ve been reintroducing joy back into my life. Slowly. Tenderly. Intentionally.
One of the first things I started doing again was walking. Not for steps. Not for weight loss. Just walking. Slow, grounding walks outside. Breathing deeply. Letting the sun warm my skin. Letting my thoughts wander. Letting the wind remind me I’m alive.
With my youngest now in daycare, I have small windows of time that are just for me. And instead of filling those gaps with more tasks, I’m filling them with ritual. Candles. Journaling. I’m staying consistent with my medication. Music that cracks me open. Baths. Silence. I’m creating peace on purpose. Not as a luxury, but as a requirement for my healing.
Because peace isn’t something you stumble into. It’s something you make room for.
To Anyone Struggling Quietly
If you’re reading this and feel like you’re barely hanging on, please hear me when I say this: You are not alone. You are not dramatic. You are not weak. You are not a burden.
Please don’t wait for the parking lot breakdown. Don’t wait until you snap at your partner. Don’t wait until you can’t get out of bed. You deserve support long before you fall apart.
Ask for help. Take the meds if you need them. Talk to your doctor. Go to therapy. Lean on your people. And most of all, give yourself permission to rest. To be cared for. To heal out loud.
Motherhood is beautiful. But it can also be brutal. It can stretch you to your edge. And we were never meant to do this alone.
Thank you for holding space for me here. For reading my words. For riding these waves with me. I don’t have it all figured out, but I’m committed to this journey. I’m still healing. Still unraveling old patterns. Still choosing myself even when it feels messy and slow.
But I’m here.
And I’m not giving up on me.
Bio
Angel Jae’ is a lifestyle and wellness writer, mama of three, and founder of Nurtured Notes, a soft life space for women redefining strength through rest, healing, and radical self-love. She believes in slow mornings, honest words, and choosing herself—daily.
Words bloom best with coffee (or tea!). Help me water the garden. [Buy me a cup here.]