Essays in Motherhood: You Don't Have a Diagnosis—You're a Mom in 2025.

Okay, maybe you do have a valid diagnosis. But let's talk about what else is true.

Here’s a little game I like to play: it’s called Do I Have a Clinical Diagnosis or Am I Just a Mom in 2025?

Spoiler: it's a toss-up.

Let me walk you through a day in the life of a "mompreneur" with a toddler, a new private practice, and a to-do list that rivals a CVS receipt. Because before we start throwing around words like “depressed,” “anxious,” “disorganized,” or "controlling," I want to talk about the real-life stuff that no one can screen for.

I’m almost two months into running my own private therapy practice. Sounds great, right? Flexible hours, meaningful work, being your own boss. What they don’t tell you is that being your own boss means you’re also every employee in the entire business. I am the accountant, the billing specialist, the legal team, the IT desk, the interior decorator, the janitor, the website designer, the content creator, and—oh right—the actual therapist.

Here’s the catch: the only hours I get paid for are the ones I spend directly with clients. 60-minute blocks. That’s it. Everything else? Unpaid labor.

So I prioritize client hours. Of course I do. But where do those clients come from? I’m my own marketing department, remember? So in every spare moment—and I mean every spare moment—I’m building this thing. Writing content. Editing my website. Posting on Instagram. Creating email campaigns. Networking. Trying to be seen. Trying to stay afloat.

When my child falls asleep, I work. When she’s watching Bluey, I work. When I drive, I voice-text. When I shower, I dictate blog posts into my phone because it’s the only place I can think. When I go to the bathroom, I take my laptop—because it’s quiet and it’s mine for 3 whole minutes.

The other morning on vacation, I told my husband, “I just need 30 minutes to knock out a few quick emails, and then I’ll be totally present for the day.” Easy, right?

Email #1: Respond to a new client inquiry. Done in two minutes.

Email #2: A complicated credentialing question from the billing specialist I’m supposedly paying to help with credentialing (though I’ve had better luck figuring it out myself). This one required logging into my business bank account and digging up details for a voided check. Not two minutes.

Email #3: A threat of legal action. Not a drill. Cue panic.

All of this while pausing every few minutes to help my daughter find her stickers, open her snack, answer why bees make honey, or locate a Band-Aid she insisted was in her suitcase. So, 30 minutes? Turns into 50. But I never actually got the original 30. I got slivers. Chunks. Interrupted seconds of concentration.

And then my husband innocently asks, “How much longer do you think you'll need?”

Well—I still need 30 minutes. Because I never actually got them to begin with.

I finally slam the laptop shut, try to switch gears, and get ready for the day. But now comes the part that no one sees. The part where my own reflection makes everything harder.

Because here’s the truth: I haven’t had time to exercise. I eat whatever is convenient, usually standing up. Since the fall, I’ve gained almost 30 pounds. I hate the way I look. And I don’t mean that in a distant, body-neutral sort of way—I mean I actively hate it. I avoid mirrors. I dread getting dressed. And now it’s time to get dressed. Cue the panic round two.

Every outfit I put on reminds me of everything I’m not doing. The time I don’t have. The self-care I don’t get. The way I used to feel in my own skin. And now I’m stuck in a room on a beautiful morning, wasting time, because I can’t get my act together enough to pick a damn outfit.

I finally throw on something semi-decent, go to grab my jewelry…aaaand it’s gone. My daughter was playing with my bracelets last night—where did she put them?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I'm moving fast. I’m clumsy now, rushing to make up for lost time. I stub my toe on the corner of the bed.

“OW. SHIT.”

I look down. My $75 pedicure from just yesterday? Ruined.

And just like that, I’ve reached full-volume irritability.

Not because I’m ungrateful. Not because I don’t love my daughter. Not because I "didn't take my meds". And not because I have a disorder or a diagnosis.

But because life—my real, honest, complex, beautiful, relentless life—is demanding more than I have to give.

Pathologizing the Pressure

Here’s where I want to pause.

Because at this point in the story, it would be very easy for someone to suggest that I might need a diagnosis. That I might be depressed. That I should consider ADHD. That maybe I have “low frustration tolerance” or “mood swings” or “emotional dysregulation.”

And you know what? That happens to women all the time.

Especially moms.

Especially moms who speak up about how overwhelmed they feel.

Especially moms who seem irritable.

Especially moms who don’t smile enough, who don’t “cope well,” who seem “on edge.”

Especially moms who are carrying 12 full-time roles and still managing to brush their teeth and keep their kid alive.

We get told we’re too sensitive.

We get labeled with anxiety disorders when we’re just being hyper-responsible in a world that hands us so much.

We get told we’re depressed when what we really are is under-supported.

We get criticized for our inability to focus when the reality is we’ve been interrupted every three minutes for three years.

It’s not that a diagnosis don’t matter. It does.

It’s not that therapy and medication aren’t helpful. They are.

But sometimes, the thing we’re calling a mental health issue is actually life.

Sometimes, it’s not about what we “have”—it's about what "has" us. It’s about what we carry.

We carry households.

We carry the mental load.

We carry invisible labor.

We carry the social pressure to look good while doing it.

We carry guilt when we can’t.

We carry resentment that we’re not allowed to name.

And we carry shame for being human under all that weight.

When men show signs of stress, they’re “overworked” or “stressed out.”

When women show signs of stress, we’re “emotional,” “unstable,” or “hormonal.”

And moms?

We’re either saints or shit-shows.

No in-between.

You can’t fall apart without someone wondering what’s wrong with you. But you also can’t say you’re fine without people assuming you’re lying. There’s no winning.

So when I say I don’t “have” ADHD, I mean—I don’t know, maybe I do. But maybe I’m also a mother in a system that isn't built for me to survive, let alone thrive. Maybe I’m trying to be five people at once while still responding lovingly to my child asking for another snack and trying not to lose my shit because I can’t find a pair of clean underwear. Maybe I’m not “dysregulated”—maybe I’m realistically overwhelmed.

And that distinction matters.

Because if we keep diagnosing women for struggling under systems that are unsustainable, we’ll keep missing the real problem. We’ll keep handing out medication for what should actually be a redistribution of labor. We’ll keep telling moms to develop “coping skills” when the real issue is that we can't carry the load.

So no—I don’t think I have a diagnosis.

I think I have a life that gives deeply and asks relentlessly.

And I think a lot of other moms do too.

The Science of Being Overstimulated

You’re in a room that’s too loud, too messy, too bright. Your clothes feel too tight. Your hair is sticking to the back of your neck in a way that makes you cringe. Your child is telling you—in excruciating detail—all the ways you’ve arranged their apple slices wrong. The dog is barking. Your phone is dinging. Someone is asking what’s for dinner.

And your entire body is screaming to climb out of itself. You’re not overreacting. You’re having a nervous system response. This is overstimulation.

Here’s what’s happening: When your brain is taking in too much sensory input at once—noise, touch, movement, interruptions, background chatter, visual clutter—it sends a signal to your nervous system that you’re "not safe". Not necessarily in a danger way, but in a "there’s too much happening and I can’t process all this" kind of way.

This floods your system with stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline, activating your sympathetic nervous system (aka fight-or-flight mode).

Your heart rate increases.

Your muscles tense.

Your breath gets shallow.

You can’t think clearly or regulate emotions easily.

And here’s the kicker: this is all happening on top of your existing mental load—the running to-do list, the emotional labor, the decision fatigue, the self-monitoring, the guilt, the sensory input you’ve already been accumulating since 6:00am.

So when your toddler touches you for the 87th time that morning, or the tag on your shirt suddenly feels unbearable, or the sound of the microwave makes your skin crawl—it’s not you being dramatic. It’s your brain trying to protect you from overwhelm.

Overstimulation is not a personality flaw. It’s a signal.

It says: There is too much coming in and not enough going out.

It says: Your system needs relief.

It says: You weren’t built to absorb this much without a break.

And yet…we push through.

Because the world doesn’t pause for moms.

Because we’ve been taught to minimize our needs.

Because we think snapping means we’re failing.

Because we’re praised for selflessness and punished for self-.

Because the world asks so much of mothers—and calls it love.

Snapping means we’re done. It means our nervous system is begging us to slow down, be alone, be still, be silent—for just a minute.

If no one has told you this before: It makes perfect sense that you feel the way you do. Your brain isn’t flawed. It’s communicating.

And it might be time to start listening.

"Sheepdog"

There’s this one Bluey episode that sums this all up perfectly. My daughter was watching it, and I was half-listening while doing something else (because of course I was), and I heard it.

Chilli, the mom, is making dinner while chaos swirls around her. Her eyes are noticeably tired. The kids are wild, the noise is nonstop—recorder playing, knock-knock jokes, constant movement. Then Bandit, the dad, walks in, fresh from a haircut…with a mullet. Chilli doesn’t react. She doesn’t yell. She just says, calmly but firmly, “I need 20 minutes where no one comes near me.” And then she walks away.

No outburst. No tears. Just a woman who has reached her limit and knows that if she doesn’t draw a boundary now, she’s going to lose it.

Bandit swoops in to distract the kids, to keep things moving. He plays along with Bluey and Bingo, even though the game involves lying on the ground pretending to be a sheepdog, which he clearly hates. And the kids, confused, keep asking if Mum is okay. They worry they did something wrong. Bluey eventually wanders off to find Chilli.

She knocks on the bedroom door and asks, in that soft, hesitant way kids do when they think they’ve done something wrong: “Did I do something bad?”

Chilli gently replies, “Sometimes mums just need 20 minutes.”

But Bluey’s response? “I don’t understand.”

And that line cuts right to the core. Because how could she understand? We don’t teach kids—let alone adults—that moms are allowed to need space. We don’t show them that overstimulation doesn't equal anger or rejection—it’s biology. It’s a request for recovery.

Back outside, Bandit’s does his best to keep the kids busy. He’s lying on the ground playing sheepdog, begrudgingly pretending to be asleep so the kids can sneak past him. But their game starts to bother the neighbor, Wendy, who pokes her head over the fence to ask "what on earth is going on". Bluey and Bingo explain: “We’re playing Sheepdog so Mum can have 20 minutes where no one comes near her.”

And just like that, Wendy’s entire demeanor shifts. She doesn’t roll her eyes. She doesn’t correct their behavior. She joins the game. No questions asked. No further explanation needed. Just a quiet, knowing shift into action. Because she gets it.

She might have started out annoyed by the noise, but the moment she hears it’s because a mother is getting a break? She’s all in. That moment—simple as it is—says so much about what solidarity among moms can look like.

It’s not about bringing each other down. It’s not about judgment or comparison. It’s about getting it—and stepping in.

We need more Wendys in this world. We need more moments where instead of side-eyeing the noise or judging their desire for rest, we say: Yeah. Of course she needs 20 minutes. What can I do to help give her that time?

In that moment, Bluey didn’t only teach kids something. It reminded us—the moms watching in silence with literal tears in our eyes—that we’re not crazy for needing space.

Sometimes, we need 20 minutes. No questions. No guilt. No explanations. Just 20 quiet, uninterrupted, no-one-touching-me minutes. And maybe someone willing to guard the bedroom door while we take them.

There’s No Diagnosis for Being a Maxed-Out Mom

Even writing this post—these very words—is risky. And I know that. I know some readers will shift uncomfortably in their seats, thinking, “Jeez, Jillian…”

But that’s exactly where I want to challenge you: Why does it make you uncomfortable?

If you’re uncomfortable with me saying this is too much, what would make you comfortable?

Would it feel better if I stayed quiet? If I just accepted this level of pressure and called it “normal”? Would it feel better if I unraveled quietly behind the scenes—but stayed pleasant and composed on the outside, just to make you more comfortable?

Because if that’s the expectation…we need to talk about why women, especially mothers, are still being asked to break beautifully.

I love being my daughter's mom. I love the little routines we have, the funny things she says, the way she leans her head on my shoulder like it’s the safest place in the world. Her smell, the softness of her skin, her soft snores.

I love us together. Me and her, her and me.

And I’m not ungrateful for my life. I worked hard for it.

I’m not blind to the fact that my husband does far more than most dads. He is attuned to our daughter's needs. He is willing to meet her on her level. He gives space for her feelings. He is patient. I see it. I appreciate it. I love it.

I also carry things he doesn’t. Things he can’t. Sometimes that difference feels loud and heavy, even when the love is very real.

Being a maxed-out mom doesn’t mean you don’t want to be a mom. It doesn’t mean you don’t love your child. It doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful, dramatic, or emotionally unstable.

It means you’re living inside an exhausting, contradictory experience no one prepares you for.

So here’s the reframe: What if you’re not dysfunctional? What if you’re not failing? What if you’re not falling apart?

What if you’re simply at capacity?

What if what you’re experiencing isn’t a mental health crisis, but a completely rational response to the impossible expectations placed on modern mothers?

Because from where I’m standing, I don’t see someone who’s "disordered".

I see someone who’s growing a business while raising a child.

Who wakes up every morning and tries again.

Who answers questions while sending invoices.

Who soothes tantrums while juggling credentialing paperwork.

Who writes blog posts in the bathroom and strategizes marketing plans while driving to school.

Who is functioning under pressure most people don’t even recognize as pressure anymore.

And yeah, maybe some days I snap.

Maybe I cry while getting dressed.

Maybe I feel angry and overstimulated and emotionally tapped out before 10:00am.

That doesn’t mean something’s wrong with me.

That means something’s wrong with the load I'm carrying.

We’re not supposed to do this alone.

We’re not supposed to perform motherhood, career, partnership, self-care, and social responsibility like a solo act with perfect lighting.

We need to stop asking moms if they’re okay and start asking: Where can I help?

We need to stop diagnosing our distress and start naming our reality.

We need to stop assuming that struggle means failure—and start recognizing it as evidence of trying. Trying hard. Every damn day.

So here’s the truth, for me and maybe for you too: I don’t need to be fixed.

I need a minute.

I need a break.

I need someone else to notice the weight I’m carrying and ask what they can carry. Or better yet, just go ahead and carry it.

I need the world to stop confusing burnout with illness and start recognizing that moms are operating under constant, unsustainable conditions.

And if you are too, I hope you hear this loud and clear: It’s not just you.

You’re mom. And that, in itself, is enough to explain everything.