My Trad Wife Era
A Tale of Sacrifice, Self-Discovery, and the Horrifying Realization That I Was Really Bad at This Whole “Traditional Wife” Thing
Love my snarky takes on marriage, parenting, and the chaos of raising an ADHD-fueled family—while still trying to live that crunchy dream, but do not want to upgrade to paid? Help keep the laughs rolling, the sourdough rising, and the wellness wisdom flowing. Toss a few bucks my way—because organic sarcasm and real talk deserve a little funding. 😉Ah, the dream. You know, the one where you have a bajillion kids, stay home in your comfy apron, and bask in the glow of your perfectly manicured garden while making meals from scratch—all the time. No one told me how I’d be covered in spit-up and up to my neck in laundry, but hey, dreams are dreams, right?
After my third child (yes, third—because apparently I didn’t know when to stop) was born, I finally did it. I got my wish. I became a stay-at-home mom thanks to the long-suffering, hard-working man who was—wait for it—overworked. So, yay me, right? But there was a tiny thing I didn’t consider. Like, a super important thing: My mental health. But more on that in a minute.
In the beginning, it was glorious. I spent my days cuddling, holding, and smothering my babies with affection—because, you know, that’s what moms do. It was like living in a Disney movie, minus the singing animals and talking dishes. We had beach days, garden days, and—get this—cooking days! And if you ask me now, I’ll tell you the “I’m Napping When They Nap” lifestyle was a sacred mantra. 10/10, would recommend. (But don’t actually nap, because then you’ll wake up wondering where your identity went)
Of course, we were also living in a thriving state of minimalism, which means we had no TV, pay-by-the-minute phones, and our grocery and clothing shopping involved more research on shipping fees than actual shopping. Fun! (Just picture me, gleaming like a radiant goddess of domesticity while calculating shipping costs. This is my personal hell.)
But then—spoiler alert—I started feeling alone. And I’m not talking about a cute, “I miss my friends!” kind of alone. No. I was talking full-on Oh my god, I need an adult to talk to other than my 3-year-old alone. Sure, I had my husband, but he was working seven days straight on swing shifts. His days off were packed with family time, which was amazing, but I started feeling like I was living in a house full of tiny humans who had no idea what a conversation with another grown-up felt like. The result? I turned to the TV for human connection. And yes, I’m that old—this was VCR-style taping era, folks. Cue the 90s nostalgia.
I didn’t know what I needed, but I threw myself into health—because that's always the answer, right? You can’t go wrong with kale and yoga, right? WRONG. I started doing 45 minutes of vinyasa yoga every day. I loved the flow, I loved how it made me feel, and, of course, I loved the changes in my body. Look at me, I’m glowing, I’m zen, I’m everything I’ve ever wanted to be! But guess what? Turns out, adding a workout routine into a suppressed trauma cocktail of motherhood doesn’t exactly lead to inner peace. So, surprise! The yoga became my escape, my way to feel something other than overwhelmed and invisible.
But as I got deeper into this search for purpose, I realized I was missing something that could not be filled with downward dogs and kale chips. I wasn’t just seeking an identity outside of mom. I was looking for creativity. But I couldn’t find it. I tried everything. Cooking, canning, gardening, home improvement projects—all of them were fine, but none of them made me feel whole. In fact, I started to feel like a machine that was programmed to clean and make meals and snuggle—and don’t forget—do it all with a smile!
Cue the movie quote: “I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!” – Zoolander.
But here's the kicker—writing. I wanted to write. But every time I’d say it out loud to my husband, I would follow it up with: “But who would listen to a 20-something mom with a house that looks like it was hit by a tornado?” Who would want to read about my “DIY shiplap project gone wrong” or “Canning disasters that could have been a horror movie”? And yet, the thought of writing kept poking me in the ribs like a 2-year-old with a spoon. It was there, begging me to pay attention, but I refused because, well, who am I to think anyone cares?
Then reality hit. I’d gotten everything I thought I wanted and guess what? It wasn’t enough. Who knew? The dream life I had fought so hard for was suffocating me. I felt lost and honestly, a little embarrassed. I had asked for this, but now I had to admit that it didn’t fit anymore. I had no idea how to get out of this self-made prison without feeling like I was disappointing everyone.
And here’s the kicker. My husband—who sacrificed everything to make my “dream life” come true—was missing all the little milestones. The birthdays, the beach days, the first words—because he was working tirelessly to pay the bills and keep everything running. But when I finally found the courage to speak up and tell him how I was feeling—brace yourselves—he didn’t yell. He didn’t call me ungrateful. He didn’t tell me I was selfish. Instead, he said, “Well then, get a part-time job to find yourself again. The kids are getting older. Use that time.”
What a plot twist. It was like the end of The Truman Show when Jim Carrey finally steps out of the fake world. Except, no one’s watching and there’s no applause.
So, there you have it. My Trad Wife Era came to an end, but I didn’t just get a new job—I got a new me. A version of me that wasn’t afraid to change, to admit that the dream I had wasn’t the dream I wanted anymore.
So, what comes next? Well, follow me to find out, because this is where the story really gets good.
In the words of the great Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz: "I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore." And neither am I.
More to explore
Money Can't Buy Happiness: Rethinking 1950s Family Life
There's More to a Relationship Than Money: Breaking Free from the Provider Myth (And the 1950s)