In My Next Life, I Want to Be the Goddamn Father

An open letter from the mother who’s done pretending she’s okay.

In my next life, I want to be the father.
Because being the mother? It’s impossible.

You have to be the one who carries the child.
You have to be the one who gives birth.
You have to be the one who’s needed — in the day, in the night, in the tiny moments no one sees.

You have to plan the entire support system just to take a breath.
You have to justify every moment you’re away — even two years later.
While your husband? He can go on a trip two weeks after the baby is born. And no one questions it.

You have to hold the schedule, the snacks, the sleep regressions, the doctor's appointments, the daycare pickups, the medicine doses, the overstimulation, the exact right blanket, and the tantrum strategy.

And you have to do it all while working.
And creating.
And healing.
And smiling.
Because God forbid a mother says she's tired.

You have to care.
But not too much.
Because then you’re "overbearing."
But if you care less, you're "neglectful."

You have to lose your body.
Your hormones.
Your identity.
And if you dare mention it?
You’re ungrateful.

People ask why you’ve gained weight.
They ask if you’re okay.
They offer no help.
But always commentary.

You have to be the default parent, and also the stable one.
You have to carry the emotional labor and make it look effortless.
Because when your child thrives, the credit goes to both of you.
But when something’s wrong? It’s always on you.

You have to keep working if you want a career — but you’ll be questioned for leaving your baby.
You have to stay home if you quit — but you’ll be invisible, unsupported, and exhausted.

You’re expected to build a life for yourself and your family with no net, no village, and no space to fall apart.

And if you do fall apart?
You’re dramatic.
You’re unstable.
You’re not coping well enough.

You have to listen to advice from people who never helped.
You have to tolerate guilt from people who never showed up.
You have to smile politely at the in-laws while they undo your routines and your child melts down in your lap.

You have to hear things like,
“At least he’s a nice guy,”
as if the bar is simply not being a monster.
Meanwhile, you’re breaking your back and questioning if you’re enough — every single day.

You have to raise a child and still be told you’re doing it wrong.
Too intense. Too emotional. Too much.

And I’m done.

I listened to the world once.
About how to give birth. About what’s natural.
I almost didn’t make it.

So no. I don’t need your opinions.
I don’t need your judgments.
I don’t need your damn parenting advice.

I will raise my child with everything I’ve got.
And I will do it while being overwhelmed.
While being under-supported.
While being infuriated that no one sees how hard this is.

So in my next life?
Yeah. I want to be the father.

Because I want to show up and be applauded for the bare minimum.
I want to take space without guilt.
I want to be able to just exist without justifying my value every single day.

But in this life?

I’m the mother.
And I’m allowed to be angry.
I’m allowed to be tired.
I’m allowed to be loud.

And if that makes you uncomfortable?

Too. Damn. Bad.