Losing Control – But the packed lunch is still made was written by a Mum who would like to remain anonymous. She has been going through a difficult time and wanted to share her experiences as there may be others in a similar situation. This article is designed to show that you are not alone and others may be going through something similar to you. It shows the strength of Mothers. No matter what we are going through, our kids will still go to school with their packed lunch made. It is raw, it is emotional, and it is beautiful. If this resonates with you, please feel free to comment below.
Losing Control – but the packed lunch is still made
So Why Am I Writing This?
Therapy?
Catharsis?
A confession in the Notes app because I can’t afford actual counselling?
Possibly all of the above.
I like writing. I like words. A colleague mentioned they were looking for blog writers and somehow — at the exact moment my brain resembled a kitchen drawer full of batteries and takeaway menus — it felt like the right time/write 😉 time.
So here I am. On my phone. In Notes.
Messy. Scruffy. Getting it all out of my head and onto the page.
Like my diary when I was 14.
Only now instead of boys and eyeliner, it’s perimenopause, antidepressants, and vaping on the doorstep and whispering what the actual fuck is happening into the void.
Growth.
There comes a point in a woman’s life—usually around 40ish, give or take a hot flush—when the universe looks you dead in the eye and says, “Right then, let’s see what you’re made of.”
And by “what you’re made of,” it means cortisol, wine, rage, and the unshakable ability to keep going even when you absolutely, categorically, spiritually cannot be arsed.
It’s a special kind of chaos reserved only for the late 30s , early 40 year olds…
It’s not a breakdown — that would require time and privacy. This is more of a slow, competent unraveling, where everything still technically functions, but only because you’re held together by lists, sarcasm, and sheer bloody habit.
Perimenopausal. Emotional (but only in private). Skint. Tired.
And juggling absolutely everything.
I am, by all external measures, functioning.
Internally? I’m one missed mufti day away from screaming into a hedge.
Let’s begin with the headline act: I am losing control — but like, in a polite, British, still-get-the-kids-to-school way.
My husband is off sick from work, which in theory should mean extra help. He’s not dying. He’s not even dramatically unwell. He’s around. Lying down. Breathing. Existing like an unpaid houseplant watching darts like it’s a national duty, while I sprint around him juggling life like a caffeinated octopus. To be clear: I love him. Truly, Madly, Deeply. Plus I’d rather chew my own arm off than date again or have to learn all that online lefty righty swipey malarkey… But while he’s off, he has developed an impressive ability to get on my t*ts…
And vice – versa I imagine.
We have no money. There have been days where I’ve done the mental maths of can I actually afford to drive today — which is not cute, quirky poverty, but exhausting background stress humming away constantly.
I’ve made a few poor decisions recently — the sort that come from being knackered, skint and overwhelmed rather than criminal intent.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing clever. Just the quiet, uncomfortable realisation that stress makes your moral compass wobble a bit.
That’s not funny. And it’s not something to laugh about — it’s something that makes you stop and go, right, time to sort myself out before I end up arrested in Marks & Spencer over picky bits.
Perspective helps.
Bills are coming out our ears (and being returned unpaid – 😩). Christmas turned up like an overdraft in a festive jumper. There’s been no Santa’s grotto this year. No Christmas “experience”. Not even the panto. We did a drive-by Christmas lights instead, like festive drive-by tourists.
And because life has a sense of humour, we’ve just added two brand-new kittens — who are adorable, feral, and determined to destroy any remaining sense of calm. They shit constantly and attempt death-defying stunts before 7am. Cute. Tiny. Mental. Powered exclusively by chaos and the desire to climb the curtains like they’re training for Ninja Warrior. They fit right in.
I have two children — 8 and 3 — which means I am never not needed. School is close to home. Win. But Nursery is close to work and miles from home, so if I want “time to myself” I basically have to come into work anyway. And half the time I don’t even have the petrol to make the extra journey. Just vibes and hope.
Home can be chaos. Everyone immediately wants something — food, screens, reassurance, my soul.
I love them. Obviously. But also?
I have fantasised about releasing them gently into the wild while whispering “be free, you furry arseholes.” All of them. The kittens, the kids and the husband. “Toodle looo mother fockorrrs!” Jokes
My clothes don’t fit. Nothing fits. Even with shapewear there’s back fat, lower belly bulge, full gunt situation. School mums have asked if I’m expecting. (I am not.) My nan has too — but she has dementia, so will let her off. Obviously.
I want new clothes. I want to fit into my own. I want a flat stomach. I cannot be arsed with the gym. Mounjaro on Universal Credit? Behave.
Somewhere in all this, I’m not coping brilliantly. At one point, everything felt a bit much. Home was loud. Work was stressful. I was reacting to everything and everyone like I’d had my last nerve surgically removed.
So I went on antidepressants.
They helped in some ways — lifted the shadows, smoothed the edges, slowed the reactions — I was less of a grumpy arsehole but they also made me feel a bit… muted. Like I was watching my own life through slightly foggy glass.
Coming off them was odd.
At first, felt a bit fizzy. A bit wobbly.
Like my brain needed a software update.
No drama. No declarations. Just a quiet realisation that medication is a tool, not a personality transplant — and sometimes you need to reassess, tweak, or try something different. Perhaps hormone replacement? Now that’s a minefield, for another day.
I’ve had moments recently where my coping mechanisms have been… questionable. Drinking more than I should. Eating like I’m preparing for hibernation. Making choices that make me think, right, that’s enough of that, someone hide the wine.
There have been days where I don’t remember small things and later find photo evidence on my phone like I’ve been on a night out — except I was at home, in pyjamas, with my children.
That’s the point where you pause, take stock, and go:
“Okay. This is not great. Time to rein it in”
I used to drink and vape when I was happy.
It felt naughty. Social. A bit rebellious.
Now? It’s less woo, fun! and more please everyone stop talking for five minutes.
I vape on the doorstep. I go for “walks” that are actually tactical retreats. Home feels heavy at the moment — lots of rules, lots of discipline, not much joy. Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s snappy. No one is fun. Especially me.
I am done talking. I have nothing to say except complaints — so I do them in my head, at 3am, while I’m hot flushing and one child is in my bed and another is on my floor. Good times.
I sigh a lot. I make noises like a disgruntled teenager. Sometimes I let out a noise best described as “woman giving birth in a Tesco car park”.
Don’t ask me how I feel.
Just decide what you want for dinner 😫.
My world is small, claustrophobic, suffocating sometimes. Other times it’s all I want.
Days are a loop. Always washing up. Always washing clothes. Always feeding kittens, scooping poop, reminding everyone “ don’t let them out! “.
Packed lunches made the night before — left out so everyone KNOWS they’re there — cooking dinner AGAIN and washing up AGAIN 🙄. Sorting bags. Sorting clothes. Checking the weather. Checking the diary, and still missing mufti day occasionally, because I am not a god.
There’s grief under all of this too. Losing my dad. Worrying about my mum. Family fractures that just sit there quietly, adding weight. My brain feels full. Not stimulated-full — cluttered-full.
This year and the past few tbh- were less “glow up” and more “held together with happy pills, wine, and (mostly) a sense of humour.” Mental health wobbly, physical health questionable, bank balance on life support, and career plans firmly in the “TBD” folder. But somehow I showed up, paid what I could, and laughed and cried when things got ridiculous.
So Why Am I Writing This?
Because sometimes writing it down makes it lighter.
Because maybe someone else is sat on their sofa, vape in one hand, phone in the other, wondering how they became this version of themselves.
Because maybe seeing it written down helps someone feel less alone.
Because there are a lot of women in their forties holding everything together while quietly losing the plot — and laughing about it is cheaper than therapy.
It’s not a recovery story.
It’s not a neat ending.
It’s just me — writing it down — so it’s not all rattling around in my head anymore.
And maybe that’s enough for today.
And if someone could take the wine off us for a bit, that’d be great.
