I just… I don’t even know what I’m doing here. It’s 2 AM. Kid’s finally asleep. Husband’s asleep. And I’m in the pantry. Sitting on the floor. Crying. Silently. Like, completely silent. Tears streaming down my face but not a single sound comes out. This is stupid. It’s not a big deal. But I just… I can’t. My hands are shaking typing this. I’m thirty. Thirty-fucking-one. I should be… I don’t know. Thriving? My cousins back home are all married, multiple kids, their mothers are already nagging them about grandkids. My parents expect a lot. I was supposed to be the one with the big career, the one who “made it” here. And now I’m just… here. In a pantry. With a kid who needs constant, intensive support. It’s not his fault. He’s amazing. My son is brilliant. But the meltdowns. The sensory dysregulation. The sleep issues. The feeding issues. Every. Single. Day. It’s relentless. I’m his primary parent, his primary therapist, his primary everything. The school calls me for EVERYTHING. The doctors call me. Husband works long hours, he tries, but he doesn’t *get* it. He can’t. He just can’t. And then I look at my parents. And my aunts. And my mom will call and say, “Oh, you must be so tired, just make sure you eat well, it’s important for the baby’s health.” And I want to scream. I want to tell her that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in five years. That I dream of a day where I can take a shower without listening for a crash. That I miss my old life. The one where I wasn’t just someone’s parent. I was… *me*. She just wouldn’t understand. How could she? Their generation, they just… dealt with it. No therapists, no early intervention, no language for any of this. Just “badly behaved children” or “stubborn kids.” And if I even hint at being overwhelmed, it’s “Oh, you’re so lucky, you have a healthy child, so many people wish for this.” And I know. I KNOW I am lucky. I am. But sometimes… sometimes I just want to curl up and vanish. Dissociate, I think that’s the term. Just… turn off. Today was… I don’t even know what set it off. The therapist called to reschedule again. The school wants another meeting about his “behaviors.” My son spent forty-five minutes screaming because his toast wasn’t cut into the correct geometric shape. And I just… I couldn’t anymore. I put him down for his nap, came in here, and just… sank. The silence is deafening. And I hate it. I hate that I’m feeling this way. I feel like a terrible person. A failure. I’m supposed to be strong. Resilient. My parents came here with nothing and built a life. I have everything, comparatively, and I’m falling apart because of… toast? This is ridiculous. I should just… go to bed. And do it all again tomorrow. And probably cry in the pantry again.