There’s a moment—usually sometime between reheating your coffee for the third time and trying to remember where you put the baby nail clippers—when you realize something’s off. You’re doing all the things, loving your little one hard, and still… you feel like a frayed sweater the dog keeps snagging. If that’s you, you’re not alone.
New motherhood is beautiful and intense. As a mom who leans natural and low-tox, I try to keep our days gentle and simple—co-sleeping when we need it, babywearing when I want two hands, cloth diapers when I have the bandwidth. And still, I’ve hit burnout patches with both my kids.
How do you know it’s not just a rough week but the kind of slow-burn exhaustion that needs attention? Here are ten patterns I watch for in myself and in other new moms I coach and befriend.
1) You wake up already overwhelmed
Before your feet hit the floor, your chest is tight. The day feels like a checklist you’re already behind on—feeding, pumping, laundry, nap math, repeat. When Ellie was a baby, I’d lie there calculating nap windows like a NASA launch. If a single variable changed, I spiraled.
What helps me now: one minute of breathwork while still in bed—hand on heart, hand on belly. Inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for six. I tell myself, “Just the next right thing.” Not the whole day—just diapers, then breakfast. It’s amazing how often “overwhelmed” shifts to “I can do this” when I shrink the moment.
2) You can’t remember the last time you ate a real meal (or tasted it)
Snack scraps don’t count. When Milo was two months old, I found myself living on crusts from Ellie’s toast and cold coffee. Not because I believe in martyrdom—because I’d lost the rhythm of caring for me. Burnout blurs hunger cues and makes nourishing yourself feel optional.
My low-lift fix: a breakfast I can eat one-handed (oats stirred with chia, nut butter, cinnamon). Lunch is a “board” on a cutting board: boiled eggs, sliced apples, cucumbers, cheese, olives. Not fancy—just purposeful. Eating like a grown-up tells my nervous system, “You’re worthy of care.”
3) Rest doesn’t feel restful
You finally get a pause…and your shoulders won’t drop. You scroll, you tidy, you catch up on baby-supply research—and it still feels like you didn’t “use” your break well. That’s classic burnout: off-switch broken.
I used to spend nap time speed-cleaning, then wonder why I was edgy by dinner. Now I pick one thing per nap: lie down for 12 minutes (timer on), drink a hot tea on the porch, or set a 15-minute “reset” for dishes. Choosing one is strangely powerful. Rest counts even if there are crumbs on the floor.
4) You’re snappy with the people you love most
I wish I could say I’ve never snapped at Matt for breathing too loudly while I was cluster-feeding—but that would be a lie. Irritability is a body-alarm, not a character flaw. And it’s often the first sign my cup is empty.
We do a quick code phrase now: “My patience is thin.” It’s a cue for help, not blame. He’ll scoop the baby, I’ll step outside, do a few rounds of square breathing, maybe walk to the garden to pick mint for water. Five minutes of air can change the tone of a whole evening.
5) The smallest decisions feel impossible
Burnout loves decision fatigue. “Which swaddle?” “What’s for dinner?” “Should we start solids?” When I notice my brain buffering, I simplify with gentle defaults: the same dinner on certain nights (Taco Tuesday forever), the same sleep routine (dim lights, lullaby, nurse/rock), the same “outing kit” by the door (diapers, wipes, muslin, snack, water, hat).
I call it compassionate autopilot. It’s not boring—it’s protective. The less energy I spend on routine choices, the more presence I have for the unpredictable parts (which, let’s be honest, are most of them).
6) You can’t stop “should-ing” yourself
“I should enjoy this more.” “I should get back to cloth full-time.” “I should be making purees from scratch.” If your inner dialog sounds like a pushy guidance counselor, your nervous system’s asking for a softer voice.
On a rough afternoon with Milo, I caught myself tallying everything I wasn’t doing “right.” I swapped “should” for “could” and everything softened: “I could lay a towel on the floor and do diaper-free time by the patio door.” We sat in the sun. He giggled. I exhaled. Perfection is a moving target; connection is not.
7) You feel detached from the things that used to light you up
A telltale sign: the garden looks wild and you don’t care; you skip the farmers’ market because the idea of talking to anyone feels heavy; crafting with your older kid is “later.” Burnout dims color.
I start tiny: five minutes weeding with Ellie’s “helper basket,” or one watercolor leaf while Milo naps on me in the wrap. The goal isn’t productivity; it’s sparking the pilot light. A little joy often makes room for a little more.
Burnout scholar Christina Maslach describes burnout as “a psychological syndrome in response to chronic interpersonal stressors on the job,” marked by exhaustion, cynicism, and reduced efficacy. Motherhood is a job of the heart—and those dimensions can show up here, too.
8) Your boundaries have dissolved into the baby monitor
If the monitor is glued to your palm and you jump up at every rustle, your body never gets the “all clear.” I believe in responsive, attachment-centered caregiving; I also believe you are part of the attachment equation. Secure babies need resourced caregivers.
We use “good-enough monitoring.” During naps, the monitor sits on the counter, not my lap. At night, because we co-sleep sometimes, I check my own cues too: Am I comfortable? Do I need water? Boundaries aren’t walls; they’re gentle fences that keep everyone safer.
9) Your world has quietly shrunk to the size of your living room
Newborn days can be cozy cocoon time. But if weeks pass and fresh air feels like a field trip, it’s time to widen the circle. When Ellie was five, she started collecting leaves again “for our pretend soup,” and her delight nudged me out the door. Nature is the low-tox, free, no-screen antidote to so much.
Even ten minutes: stroller to the corner and back, baby in the carrier while you stand under a tree, backyard picnic on a blanket with a jar of pickles and crackers. Sunlight resets sleep and mood. Outside is medicine we don’t have to swallow.
10) Asking for help feels like failure
If you catch yourself thinking, “Other moms do this without complaining,” please know that’s your inner critic lying. Community care isn’t extra credit; it’s the way humans have always done this. As Brené Brown puts it, “We don’t have to do all of it alone. We were never meant to.”
When Matt does Saturday pancake duty or fixes a squeaky hinge, that isn’t me “failing” at homelife; it’s us being a team. When a neighbor drops off soup, I receive it with gratitude and pay it forward when I can. Asking for help is not a moral scorecard—it’s an oxygen mask.
So… what now?
If you read these and thought, “Oh. That’s me,” here’s a gentle plan I lean on when I’m crispy around the edges:
- Name it out loud. “I’m stretched thin.” Saying it to your partner or a trusted friend reduces shame and invites support.
- Lower the bar for 48 hours. Paper plates. Frozen dumplings. Shower tomorrow. Aim for nourished + safe + connected, not perfect.
- Rebuild one anchor routine. Bedtime is my favorite place to start: low light, warm bath (or warm washcloth wipe-down), simple story, snuggle/nurse/rock, white noise. Predictability steadies everyone.
- Move your body kindly. Carrier walk. Ten squats while the kettle boils. Stretch your jaw (yes, really). A relaxed jaw tells your pelvic floor it can relax, too—nervous systems talk to each other.
- Choose one joy micro-dose. Tea on the steps. Five minutes of garden puttering. A silly dance with your toddler. The point is delight, not output.
- Check the basics. Are you eating protein and real food? Drinking water? Getting sunlight before 10 a.m.? Even if you co-sleep, can you plan a 20-minute daytime doze on the couch with the baby safely next to you?
If intrusive thoughts, panic, or persistent hopelessness are part of your days, you deserve professional care. There’s no prize for muscling through. A therapist, a postpartum support group, or your midwife/OB can help you sort what’s “normal hard” from what’s “needs treatment.” You are not broken; you are adjusting to a seismic life change.
As Dr. Alexandra Sacks reminds us with matrescence, this identity shift is real and complex—and you don’t have to pretend it’s easy. Her TED talk is a compassionate place to start.
A final word from my messy, loving home to yours
Ellie is my tender-hearted helper; she’ll hand me a leaf “medicine” when I look tired. Milo is my cuddler-climber; he’ll smush his cheek to mine and then launch off the couch like a superhero.
Neither of them needs a perfect mom. They need me—present enough to notice their joy, steady enough to offer a safe lap, human enough to say, “I need a minute.”
If the signs here sound familiar, take it as an invitation, not an indictment. Your worth isn’t measured in homemade purees or how tidy your living room is after bedtime. It’s in the way you keep showing up—with gentleness for your baby and for yourself.
One small step today. Then another tomorrow. That’s how we come back to ourselves.
