🌼 Mumma Burnout – A Healing Dialoguer
- Madhukar Dama
- Apr 8
- 5 min read
👩👧👦 Characters:
Madhukar – the wise, minimalist hermit and lifestyle guide.
Sonal (30) – A first-time mother, corporate employee on maternity leave, overwhelmed and sleepless.
Neha (34) – A mom of two, trying to balance housework, tuition for kids, and social pressure to be “perfect.”
Fathima (32) – A stay-at-home mom, feeling invisible, with postpartum weight and identity issues.
Priya (28) – Influencer mom, constantly comparing herself online, exhausted by the pressure to “perform motherhood.”
🌿 Setting:
A quiet summer morning in Madhukar’s courtyard.
Clay cups with buttermilk.
Birds chirping.
The women sit on a straw mat, wearing loose cotton sarees and kurtas, exhausted but curious.
A baby squirrel hops nearby.
☀️ Scene: Morning in Madhukar’s Courtyard
A neem tree casts dappled shadows.
Birds chirp.
A small clay stove simmers with herbal tea.
Four women, tired yet hopeful, sit in loose cotton clothes.
Madhukar, serene, barefoot, squats near a pile of soaked tamarind, skinning it slowly.
Sonal (yawning):
I haven’t slept properly since my son was born.
He’s two now.
Neha (sighing):
Sleep is a distant dream.
My elder one wakes up screaming about exams.
The younger one pees on the floor just as I sit down.
Fathima (softly):
I sometimes hide in the bathroom to cry.
My husband thinks I’m just constipated.
Priya (grinning nervously):
I just posted a reel on “gentle parenting” while yelling at my daughter off-camera.
800 likes.
No peace.
Madhukar chuckles, placing the peeled tamarind in a bowl.
Madhukar (calmly):
And so you all came here to… outsource your sanity?
Sonal:
Yes please.
Also maybe rent your silence for a week?
Neha:
Can you adopt us?
Or at least tell us how to become like you?
Peaceful.
Unbothered. Rested.
Madhukar:
You’re not broken.
You’re just bleeding from a thousand invisible cuts.
Not one wound, but a hundred expectations.
Fathima (tearing up):
Nobody claps for us.
No salary slips.
No appraisals.
Just “What did you do all day?”
Priya:
I tried everything.
Instagram therapy.
Online yoga.
Almond milk.
Nothing works.
Madhukar (smiling):
Motherhood is not a bug.
It’s a feature.
But it’s running on corrupted software.
You are burning the CPU with apps you never downloaded consciously.
🧠 Madhukar’s Gentle Interrogation Begins (Socratic Style)
Madhukar:
Tell me — how many minutes of stillness did you get yesterday?
Sonal:
Stillness?
Between feeding, crying, cooking, calls?
Zero.
Madhukar:
And when did you last touch soil?
Neha:
Does vacuuming count?
Madhukar:
laughs
No, dear.
Soil that has worms.
Life.
Earthiness.
Not a sterilized prison.
Fathima (whispering):
I used to love painting.
I haven’t touched a brush in four years.
Madhukar:
What if I told you...
A child doesn’t just need a mother.
She needs a mother who remembers her own name.
Priya:
But… there’s no time.
No energy.
And guilt.
Constant guilt.
Madhukar:
Guilt is the perfume of burnout.
It smells noble but poisons slowly.
Who taught you that being tired all the time is love?
The Core Medicine: Ahar, Vihar, Aushad, Yoga & Satsang
Madhukar:
What you need is not a new app or gadget.
You need five forgotten medicines:
Ahar (Food) – Fresh. Warm. Local. No cling-wrapped snacks.
Vihar (Recreation) – Laughing. Dancing. Walking barefoot. Climbing a mango tree.
Aushad (Nature's Remedies) – Turmeric, sun, neem, sleep, silence.
Yoga – Not contortion. Just movement. Breathing. Gratitude.
Satsang – Conversations that heal, not scroll you into comparison.
🌸 The Turning Point
Sonal:
So we’re not bad mothers?
Madhukar:
You’re exhausted warriors with no army.
No village.
But healing begins the day you stop outsourcing your joy.
Neha:
What do we do first?
Madhukar (grinning):
You’ll sit under this neem tree every morning.
You’ll eat food made with your hands, not delivered in plastic.
You’ll let your kids see you nap.
Paint.
Cry.
Laugh.
You’ll live.
Fathima (smiling through tears):
That sounds like home.
Like life before I became... a machine.
Priya:
Can I record this?
Not to post. Just to remember.
Madhukar:
No need.
Let the silence record it in your bones.
The women sip tea.
The wind rustles the leaves.
Somewhere, a squirrel jumps onto a branch, almost as if smiling.
🌼 Mumma Burnout: 3 Months Later
🧺 Scene: Same Neem Tree, New Light
The courtyard feels different.
Softer. Lighter.
A mat is spread under the neem tree.
Faint smell of ragi dosa and tulsi tea in the air.
A small clay swing hangs from the branch.
Children’s giggles echo in the background.
Madhukar (smiling, grinding sandalwood with a stone):
Ah, the burnt-out goddesses return.
But where’s the smoke?
Sonal (radiant):
Gone!
I sleep now.
Like, full sleep.
My son also started sleeping better.
We dance before dinner.
Actual dance!
Not reels!
Neha (laughing):
I took a nap with guilt.
Then another one without guilt.
My husband thought I was sick.
I said, "No, just human."
Fathima (wearing a hand-painted kurta):
I started painting again.
Just thirty minutes a day.
But my heart thanks me every time.
My elder daughter painted beside me yesterday.
She drew a sleeping mother.
Said, “You look happy now.”
Priya (smirking):
Guess what?
I deleted Instagram.
I’m now famous in the building for real-life puppet shows.
Kids love it.
Adults too.
I finally feel useful and happy.
Madhukar (pouring tea):
So, you see?
You didn’t need a detox.
You needed a reunion — with your inner girl, your breath, your hunger, your soil.
🌳 Closing Words
Sonal:
I used to think healing would feel like a hospital.
Turns out, it feels like making breakfast slowly.
Neha:
Or walking barefoot on grass.
Fathima:
Or being able to say, “I’m tired,” without guilt.
Priya:
Or laughing at absolutely nothing.
Madhukar (gentle):
Now promise me — never again outsource your joy.
And remember: A mother who rests, heals generations.
A breeze rustles.
A baby laughs.
Tea cups clink.
The neem leaves shimmer like applause from nature itself.
the mother burns slow
she wasn’t made to
chop vegetables between meetings,
rock a child while swiping through reels
of women faking joy.
she wasn’t born to
fold socks while her bones cried,
laugh politely at her
own vanishing.
they called her
a superwoman.
they meant:
please break quietly.
the walls didn’t listen,
the phone buzzed,
the child screamed,
the clock laughed.
but one day—
she threw her phone into the sock drawer.
she made tea without purpose.
she lay down,
like a lioness remembering
she is not a pet.
and the silence
clapped.
her breath came back
with stories.
she painted,
she sang,
she wept without asking permission.
the children watched.
and smiled.
like trees
recognizing rain.