She Became a Mother… But Where Did She Go?

I barely entered my thirties recently. And instead of feeling young, alive, excited, and ready for a new decade, I found myself asking something that sat heavy on my chest.

Have I grown old?

Not because of a number. But because somewhere between university stress, wedding planning, pregnancies, childbirth, postpartum, sleepless nights, school runs, homework, dinner plans, laundry piles, grocery lists, family expectations, and the endless needs of everyone around me, I feel like I lost pieces of myself. Tiny pieces, quietly, one by one. And nobody noticed.

Because in our society, when a woman becomes a wife and a mother, everyone expects her to adjust. To understand. To compromise. To sacrifice. To manage. To smile. To be grateful. Grateful because she has a home. Grateful because she has children. Grateful because she has help. Grateful because other women have it worse.

But who tells the world that having help does not mean having rest? House help can wash the dishes. House help can sweep the floors. House help can clean and fold clothes. But house help cannot carry the mental weight of motherhood.

It cannot remember which child has a project due tomorrow. It cannot notice that one child is quieter than usual. It cannot cook meals according to everyone’s mood, health, and preference. It cannot worry about studies, manners, screen time, confidence, friendships, coughs, fevers, uniforms, school notices, birthday parties, emotional needs, and future admissions.

It cannot be the mother.

And being the mother is not a small thing. It is making the children shower when they resist. Feeding them when they refuse to eat. Cooking food they may or may not like. Sitting with them for homework when your own brain is tired. Waking up at night when they cry. Showing up at school events. Remembering their special days. Being emotionally available when you yourself are breaking inside.

It is being the center of everyone’s life while slowly disappearing from your own.

And then we look at men. Not with hatred. Not with bitterness for the sake of bitterness. But with a tired, aching honesty.

Why does their life continue?

Why does marriage not swallow them the same way?

Why does fatherhood not cage them the same way?

A man can decide to go out. Just like that. No planning. No guilt. No checklist. No explanation. No fear of what people will say. He can have weekly meetups with friends. Padel. Snooker. Cricket. Long drives. Tea at midnight. Plans after dinner. Plans before dinner. Plans that begin at 3 a.m. on a weekday.

And somehow, life adjusts around him.

But when a woman wants to step out, even for a few hours, the whole house needs a management plan. Who will watch the kids? What will they eat? Have they showered? Is the homework done? Will the baby sleep? Will the children be okay? Will the house fall apart?

A man goes out. A woman arranges her absence.

And that is the difference.

Pakistani women are not tired because they are weak. They are tired because they are carrying invisible loads that nobody counts as work. A working mother comes home from professional work only to begin another shift. The laptop closes, but the kitchen opens. The office ends, but motherhood begins louder. The meetings finish, but the homework starts.

The world may call her educated, independent, successful, modern. But at home, she is still expected to know where the socks are, what is in the fridge, who needs medicine, which bill is due, which child needs attention, and what everyone will eat tonight.

She earns, but she must also serve. She is modern enough to work, but traditional enough to carry the home.

And somewhere in all this, there is a girl. A girly girl. A girl who once had dreams.

She wanted to live her Bollywood-style romantic dreams with her husband. Travel with her friends. Laugh loudly without checking the time. Dress up for herself. Go out without feeling guilty. Dance in a car on a long drive. Sit at a café for hours. Learn something new. Build something of her own. Sleep without being needed. Wake up without already being late.

She wanted freedom.

Not freedom from her children. Not freedom from love. Just freedom to exist as herself too.

But our society often makes mothers feel that wanting anything for themselves is selfish. As if a good mother must erase herself completely. As if love only counts when it comes with exhaustion. As if sacrifice is the only language of womanhood.

And then there is another pain that comes with growing older. The pain of watching your parents age.

You are raising your children while worrying about the people who raised you. You are packing lunchboxes while thinking about your father’s blood pressure. You are helping with homework while remembering your mother’s doctor appointment. You are trying to be present for your children while fearing every late-night phone call from home.

You are somebody’s mother now. But you are still somebody’s daughter. And that daughter is scared.

Scared of time. Scared of loss. Scared that while she is busy taking care of everyone, life is passing her by.

This is the emotional sandwich so many Pakistani women live in. Children on one side. Aging parents on the other. Husband, home, work, relatives, expectations, society, all pressing in.

And in the middle is a woman who is expected to remain soft, patient, beautiful, respectful, productive, religious, caring, and composed.

But what if she is tired?

What if she is angry?

What if she misses herself?

What if she wants to live, not just spend her life?

Barely entering your thirties should not feel like the end of youth. It should not feel like the closing of a door. It should not feel like our dreams are now childish, expired, or inappropriate.

Your thirties are not old. Your thirties are young. Your thirties are alive. Your thirties can be a beginning.

But many women reach this stage feeling much older because they have lived years without rest, without space, without being asked what they want.

So maybe the question is not whether I have grown old. Maybe the question is this: why was I made to feel old so soon?

Why did responsibility come to me like a storm, while freedom stayed with men like a birthright?

Why do women have to earn rest, while men simply take it?

Why is a mother’s outing treated like a negotiation, while a father’s outing is treated like normal life?

Why do we praise women for breaking silently, instead of helping them live fully?

Pakistani mothers do not need more lectures on patience. They need partnership. They need friends who check in. They need homes where their rest is not treated as laziness. They need a life where joy is not something they must apologize for.

A woman can love her children deeply and still want time for herself. She can be grateful and still be exhausted. She can have help and still feel overwhelmed. She can be a good wife and still need freedom. She can be a devoted daughter and still need support.

She can be a mother and still be a woman.

And that woman matters.

Her dreams matter. Her friendships matter. Her hobbies matter. Her sleep matters. Her body matters. Her mental health matters. Her laughter matters. Her life matters.

Not after the children grow up. Not after the house is settled. Not after everyone else is satisfied. Not someday. Now.

Because one day, the children will grow older. The house will be quieter. The routines will change. And if we are not careful, a whole generation of women will look back and realize they gave everyone a life, but never allowed themselves one.

I do not want to wake up years from now and wonder where I went. I do not want my daughter to think motherhood means disappearance. I do not want my son to think women are born to serve while men are born to live.

I want my children to see a mother who loves them, yes, but also a mother who respects herself enough to breathe.

A mother who goes out. A mother who laughs. A mother who rests. A mother who has friends. A mother who has dreams beyond the kitchen, beyond the school diary, beyond the laundry basket, beyond the role assigned to her.

I barely entered my thirties. And maybe I am not old. Maybe I am just waking up.

Maybe this ache inside me is not sadness alone. Maybe it is a reminder. A reminder that the girl I used to be is still here. She is not dead. She is waiting.

Waiting for me to choose her too.

So to every Pakistani mother who feels overwhelmed, unseen, guilty, tired, and lost, you are not alone. You are not ungrateful. You are not selfish. You are not failing. You are carrying too much.

And you deserve more than survival. You deserve partnership. You deserve tenderness. You deserve rest. You deserve joy. You deserve to live.

Not when the right time comes. Because maybe the right time will never be handed to us. Maybe we have to claim it.

One evening at a time. One boundary at a time. One honest conversation at a time. One dream at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, the little girl inside us will finally get her turn.