By Ashley Butler
@ashley_butlermomchaosandcoffee

Some days motherhood feels like sprinting through a to-do list that keeps growing faster than I can move. Even when my body is still, my mind refuses to settle. There’s always something waiting for me. Something I’m behind on. Something ready to take my attention the second I finish the thing in front of me.

The shift happened on a random afternoon at the playground. I was watching my kids climb and slide when I noticed a bee hovering over a patch of clover. Its wings buzzed constantly, its body touching down for half a heartbeat before lifting again, as if it suddenly remembered ten more places it needed to be. It never fully landed. It just bounced from spot to spot, barely staying still long enough to gather anything at all.

I felt it immediately.

That’s me.
That’s my brain.
That’s my day.

Even when my body is in one place—sitting on the couch, standing at the kitchen counter, buckling a car seat—my mind is already moving ahead. Toward the next task. The next problem. The next thing that needs attention. It’s a constant hum of motion inside a life that already moves fast enough.

For a long time, I treated rest like a reward.
If I finished the list, then I could relax.
If the house was clean, then I could sit down.
If everything ran smoothly, then I could breathe.

But nothing in motherhood is ever truly finished. The list regenerates itself. The laundry returns. School forms appear without warning. Bedtime never goes the same way twice.

Somewhere along the way, I became the kind of mom who gave and gave until there wasn’t much left, then apologized for it.

No wonder I felt so depleted.

I didn’t make a big decision to change that. I just started noticing small pauses that existed inside the day already. Brief moments where I stopped buzzing long enough to arrive where I was. I began thinking of them as tiny landings.

They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t look like rest, exactly. They were fleeting moments: standing in the sun for a minute before walking back inside, letting my kids lean into me without mentally rehearsing what came next, finishing a cup of coffee without rushing to refill it. Small pauses that didn’t fix anything, but changed how the day felt from the inside.

Those pauses didn’t erase the to-do list or smooth out the chaos. Dinner was still dinner. Bedtime was still bedtime. Mornings were still loud.

But I was different inside them.

One night, right as bedtime was starting to unravel, I felt the familiar urge to rush us toward the finish line. The questions came fast—the thirst, the forgotten thought, the sudden need to discuss the moon. Normally, I would have hurried us through just to make it stop.

Instead, I noticed myself pause.

Two slow breaths.
A softening I didn’t plan.

My voice changed.
The room changed.
The kids relaxed.

The story took a few extra minutes. Nothing was solved. Nothing was fixed. But the house felt calmer. And so did I.

That’s the thing about those small pauses. They don’t transform your life. They just bring you back into it.

I don’t want my kids to remember a mother who was always rushing past them toward some better version of the day. I want them to remember someone who could land, even briefly. Someone who could look them in the eyes, listen to the joke that never ends, and still feel like herself when the house finally went quiet.

My days still hum like that little bee at the playground. They’re still full. Still busy. Still in motion.

But now, every so often, I notice myself landing. Long enough to gather something before lifting off again.

And that, I’m learning, makes all the difference.

Ashley Butler is a married mom of two who writes personal essays about mental load, rest, and the small moments of grounding found in everyday motherhood.

Like what you are reading at Motherwell? Please consider supporting us here. 

Keep up with Motherwell on Facebook, Instagram and via our newsletter.