I'm the mom with color-coded bins and a fridge with labeled sections. I'm exhausted.
Now I see that my hyper-organization is a survival tactic to manage and control my busy life.
These days, I'm trying to prioritize presence over perfection for my family's well-being.
If there was an award for being the most together mom, people often say I'd win it.
I'm the mom whose diaper bag has compartments. My fridge is labeled. I have bedtime charts, color-coded toy baskets, and a family Google Calendar that could rival those of a CEO of a Fortune 500 company.
Friends call me when they need tips on transitioning to solid foods or structuring a preschooler's day. My WhatsApp groups are filled with "Nkatha, how do you do it?" messages. And honestly? I eat that praise up.
From the outside, it looks like I have it all together. But the pressure to be so on top of everything is quietly breaking me.
I'm doing what I need to do to stay in control
Here's my big secret: all this organization isn't just about being efficient. It's survival.
I'm a working mom of two, a 4-year-old autistic son and a spirited 3-year-old daughter who has questions about everything. I log off Zoom meetings only to jump into therapy appointments, sensory play, tantrums, dinner, and bedtime stories. I'm constantly multitasking, reviewing documents while blending fruit purée, answering emails with one child, if not both, on my lap, and praying the internet doesn't glitch during a meltdown.
Being organized became my coping mechanism when chaos started to feel like a permanent roommate. I lost my mom when I was 8. That grief left a gap not just emotionally, but logistically. I became hyper-aware of everything that could fall apart without her, and I've been trying to keep things from falling apart ever since.
Now, as a mom myself, I try to be everything she wasn't able to be for me: ever-present, prepared, and always in control. But control is exhausting.
I'm struggling more than my friends may know
People see the labelled bins and meal plans, but they don't see me crying in the living room alone after everyone's asleep. They don't see me freezing when a meltdown happens in public, wondering if I've failed my children, but mostly my son.
They don't see the guilt I feel for missing a school event because of a client meeting, or how I overcompensate with Pinterest-perfect snacks and toys that I feel are, at times, too much and unnecessary, hoping that they will make up for my absence.
This invisible standard of being a "Super Mom" feels like a moving target. The more I meet it, the more it demands. If I drop the ball, if dinner isn't prepared on time or if the sensory play isn't prepped, it's not just a mess. It feels like I'm unravelling.
I'm learning to ease up a bit
Sometimes I wish I could be the mom who just wings it. The one whose kids wear mismatched socks and eat cereal for dinner without judgment. But then I remember why I started all this in the first place: because structure makes my autistic son feel safe, and because I wanted my daughter to grow up knowing that her mom showed up, not just for her, but for everyone, including her brother and her dad.
Still, I'm learning to choose presence over perfection. Some days, that means letting the house be messy and dancing in the kitchen instead. Other days, it means cancelling a playdate so I can rest.
I'm slowly learning that maybe my kids don't need color-coded schedules as much as they need a mom who is there and happy, even if that means being tired and messy.
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