26th November 2025
Article by Hannah Fellerman
Hello and welcome back to the Ezelle blog.
I hope you’re all doing well.
Before we dive in, I just wanted to say that today’s piece is a more honest, reflective one; something a little closer to the heart, and something I know many mothers (and parents in general) will relate to. I hope it brings comfort, connection or even just a moment of “it’s not just me.”
(Side note: I wrote this on the 26th of November but mum-life meant it took five days to finally get it up here.)
If you would like to contribute to our blog, please email us with the subject “guest writer” to info@ezelle.co with some detail about yourself and your writing experience; all experience levels are welcome.
Take care and enjoy the article!
– Hannah
Motherhood Without a Village: A Neurodivergent Reality
Today started at 5am with my three-and-a-half-year-old sitting upright beside me in bed saying he was hungry. He still hasn’t fully transitioned to his own room yet, and because both boys wake each other constantly, I’ve been trying to keep them separated at night as much as possible. But they’ve both been ill recently, so sleep has been chaos; broken in tiny pieces, stretched thin, never enough.
I took him downstairs in the dark and gave him one of our homemade flapjacks as a quick snack to settle his tummy. Then I carried him quietly back upstairs, hoping the baby wouldn’t stir, and tried to ease him back into sleep. He didn’t drift off again until 6:30. Neither did I. I was lying there half-awake, half-guarding, listening out for the baby, waiting for the next cry, feeling the night slip into morning before I’d even had a chance to rest. Then the baby woke for a feed, so I didn’t actually sleep until around 6:55.
My “final emergency alarm” was set for 7:10; and I slept straight through it.
We woke at 7:45, the exact time I’m normally hunting for toddler socks and checking the clock. Before I even had a chance to think, I had to scramble breakfast together for all of us, at the exact time we were supposed to be getting ready for school. Everything slid behind. We made it out the door; but we were twenty minutes late.
A Kindness in the Middle of Chaos
On the way home, I cried. Proper tears; the kind that come from carrying everything alone for too long. A kind woman saw me, stopped, and hugged me. She asked if I wanted her to sit with me. I said no, but I asked her to pray for me. I’m Muslim, and she wore a head covering too. I don’t know her religion, but something about that moment softened something inside me. It reminded me of the Qur’anic verse: “And We have made you nations and tribes so that you may know one another” (49:13).
A little while later, I ended up chatting with my neighbour who has three children. She admitted she’s struggling too; her youngest, who is five, is autistic and has a huge speech delay. She still has to sleep next to her, and she wakes up two or three times a night. She has no extra support either. As we stood there, sharing our tiredness out loud, we agreed we would try to support each other in whatever small ways we can.
No Time to Breathe
When you’re a stay-at-home mum with a seven-month-old and a toddler, there’s no pause button. The baby takes up every moment. There’s no time for housework; no time for rest; no time to breathe. By the time we’re back from the school run, the baby needs attention, feeding, rocking. I grab my breakfast late and try to wedge in laundry or something else that desperately needs doing while keeping one eye on the clock; because the baby is already overdue for his first proper nap.
That nap is ideally the moment where the house goes back together, or I sit down, or drink something hot. But the reality is very different. He will barely let me put him down, so if I want him to sleep longer, I have to keep him on me. He usually only sleeps twenty minutes in the pram on the way home; so he’s overtired; which makes naps shorter; which makes him crankier; which makes the whole day spiral.
Layer onto that ADHD, a body juggling multiple chronic conditions: IBD, a working diagnosis of Dercum’s disease, auditory processing difficulties, and possible autism; all sitting quietly in the background while I try to parent. Add a mind that forgets socks in four-degree weather (like I did yesterday and ended up at the school gates in sandals with frozen toes) because it’s running on survival mode, a body that’s losing weight from stress, and a PIP refusal that means fighting through a mandatory reconsideration while my brain is already stretched thin.
We Weren’t Created to do This Alone
If the world were designed with mothers in mind; especially neurodivergent and disabled mothers, everything would look different. There would be free drop-in centres on every street. Community kitchens. Neighbours who actually know one another. A culture where asking for help isn’t treated like weakness but like belonging.
Maybe the first step is reaching out. Maybe it’s exchanging numbers with the mums on our street. Maybe it’s admitting we need a village, and daring to rebuild one in whatever small, imperfect way we can.
When the Day Isn't Done Yet
As the evening rolled in, the pace didn’t slow; after school pickup today I managed a washing load; cooked dinner; and ate only half before rushing into the bedtime chaos. The baby was overtired after only a short pram nap; the older one was wired and emotional; refusing his usual pre‑bed pee. I laid a protective mat under him just in case. His dad put him to sleep whilst he was crying and begging to come back to our main bedroom. I fed the baby; rocked him to sleep; quietly praying that my husband’s bedtime story voice would soothe the toddler better than I could the night before. I tried to hold the whole scene together while my body and mind begged for rest.
Even now, at 9:20pm with the little one finally asleep in my arms after three wake ups, a failed attempt at putting him down and a final feed to settle him, I need the toilet and I need water; I have to wait a little while again until I can put him down. Then I’ll attempt to eat the other half of my dinner; prepare my eldest’s packed lunch; and then prepare my mind for a night full of baby wakings and feeds until the morning rolls around again.
And Because no Day is Complete Without Oscar Making an Appearance...
Just as I was finally about to put the baby down, our cat Oscar trotted over and started purring at full volume. He pressed himself right up against me like he could feel the stress radiating off my body.
Honestly, he probably could… this is the same cat who meows at me between 5am and 7am every single day for food, without fail, and likes to add a bonus night-time performance too.
It’s funny… even the cat seems to know I’m running on fumes. Somehow his timing is both terrible and perfect at the same time.
On the way home earlier I’d spoken to a friend who reminded me that one day, when both kids are older, I might look back on these years and laugh; but right now my brain never rests; my body never rests; it’s 24 hours of constant motion and constant giving, often rolling straight from a night of broken sleep, waking every couple of hours to feed and rock the baby, into another full day that doesn’t pause for breath.
I know this phase will pass eventually and I am reminded of yet another Qur’anic verse: “With hardship comes ease, verily with hardship comes ease” (94:5-6).
A Gentle Ending to a Heavy Day
Oscar eventually wandered off after his little moment of comfort, and I thought maybe, maybe… the rest of the night would finally settle. But motherhood had other plans.
Later that night, just when I thought the day was easing, both boys woke up again. I took them downstairs while I reheated my dinner; the baby smiled up at me in my arms before I placed him gently in the bouncer so I could finish making the packed lunch. My eldest chatted away, asked for a snack, then immediately said he was full. He wanted to help with the lunch prep, proudly packing rice cakes into his little container and proudly telling me he finished them all today; only for me to later discover the broken pieces he’d secretly tucked in the bottom of his bag. He told me the teacher said he was “all done,” and I honestly had no idea what to make of that, but it made me laugh in that tired, bewildered way only motherhood can.
He hugged his baby brother before we headed back upstairs. I managed to coax him into doing his bedtime wee, then started feeding the baby while choosing a bedtime story, but by the time I found one, he had already fallen asleep beside me, snoring softly. The baby drifted off on my chest soon after.
And now, at 11:25pm, both boys have finally drifted off… soft little snores filling the room; and a few minutes later Oscar padded upstairs and curled himself onto what used to be the toddler bed. For the first time all day, the house is quiet. It feels like the tiniest exhale after a storm.
All images used in this article are royalty-free from Unsplash.