The internet loves a woman who fits neatly into a category. The tradwife, basking in the glow of freshly baked sourdough, her life an ode to nostalgic domesticity. The childfree-by-choice woman, sipping Aperol Spritzes on a sunlit balcony, her autonomy celebrated as liberation.
But the working mother, who exists somewhere in the middle? She rarely commands such a romantic narrative. Instead, she’s cast as the emblem of exhaustion: screaming into the ether, and crushed under the weight of challenges both systemic and deeply personal.
