Parental burnout: why resentment is so common and how parents can find relief ?

The kitchen is dim. The clock says 9:47 p.m., but your body feels like it gave up hours ago.

There are still crumbs on the counter, homework papers fanned out on the table, and a half-drunk cup of tea that went cold during bedtime negotiations.

You’re standing at the sink, hands deep in soapy water, wiping out the same pan for the third time this week.

Behind you, someone coughs from a bedroom. A door clicks. A toilet flushes. You don’t flinch.
Because this is normal. This is routine. This is what love looks like.

Except something inside you is tight. There’s a silent ache behind your ribs. A thought you barely let form: No one sees me.

We don’t talk about resentment in parenting. Not openly. Not without shame. It’s the secret burn behind a slammed cupboard. The extra loud sigh when you pick up the same sock. The sarcastic edge in your voice when someone asks, “What’s for dinner?” again.

Resentment isn’t proof you don’t love your people. It’s proof you’ve been loving from an empty well.

Resentment often starts not with rage, but with quiet over functioning. You became the one who keeps it all running.

The memory bank. The bedtime enforcer. The scheduler, cook, communicator, therapist, and cleaner—all rolled into one.

Not because you chose it, necessarily, but because no one else stepped in. Or you stopped believing they could.

This isn’t just about tasks. It’s about holding everyone’s emotions, soothing every meltdown, anticipating needs before they’re spoken, making the invisible visible—without being asked, and without being thanked.

Especially if you’ve relocated or parent in a culture different from the one you were raised in. You may not have extended family down the street. You may feel pressure to live up to both the traditions you came from and the modern image of a parent who has it all together.

In these quiet, in-between places—between love and loneliness, responsibility and identity—resentment finds a home.

You don’t always know it’s there. It sneaks in disguised as tiredness, detachment, or reactivity:

• Snapping at your child for needing too much, then hating yourself for it.
• Feeling cold or distant from your partner, unsure why.
• Doing it all without asking for help, and then resenting everyone for not offering.
• Fantasizing about being alone—not forever, just for a weekend, a day, a morning.

Sometimes, resentment doesn’t even feel like anger. It feels like numbness. Like checking out. Like going through the motions while secretly counting down the hours until you can be alone.

And still—you smile. You show up. You keep going.

But deep down, something is quietly eroding your joy.

Many of us were raised in family systems that equated love with sacrifice. That taught us to measure our worth in how little we needed, how much we gave, and how quiet we could stay.

To name resentment feels like a betrayal—of our children, our partners, or even our ancestors.

But here’s the paradox: resentment doesn’t mean we don’t care. It means we’re at capacity. It’s not about blame. It’s about boundaries. It’s not about withdrawing love. It’s about restoring balance.

And yet, because resentment is so rarely spoken aloud, we misread it as personal failure. We think, I must not be grateful enough. I should be able to handle this. Everyone else is doing fine.

This silence is where burnout breeds.

Let me paint you a scene.

You’ve just come home from a long day—school pickups, grocery run, a half-listened-to work call in the car. You walk in to find shoes everywhere, dinner not started, and your partner asking, “What’s for dinner?”

Something inside you snaps. Maybe you raise your voice. Maybe you go silent. Maybe you slam a cupboard just loud enough to make a point.

And then, almost immediately, the guilt rushes in. Why did I react like that? you ask yourself. You tuck the resentment back down. You try to make up for it with extra kindness, extra doing.

But here’s the truth: suppressing resentment doesn’t make you a better parent. It makes you a brittle one.

You start to lose your spark. Your patience. Your sense of humor. You become efficient, not alive.

Edith Eger says, “The opposite of depression is expression.” What if the same is true for resentment?

What if the ache in your chest isn’t a problem to hide, but a message to heed?

Resentment often arises from silence—unspoken needs, unexpressed grief, unreleased expectations. But it can also be a doorway. A map. A quiet rebellion that leads you home.

This isn’t about fixing it all. It’s about seeing clearly.

• Instead of shrinking your needs, could you acknowledge them?
• Instead of pretending you’re fine, could you whisper what’s true?
• Instead of holding it all alone, could you let something soften?

You don’t have to know exactly what needs to change.
But knowing what’s not working is a powerful start.

Because when resentment is seen—not judged, not dismissed—it becomes something else: clarity.

A path.

A boundary.

A reclamation.

You are allowed to want more.

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to take up space in your own life.

I’m sharing some of my favourite journaling prompts. Set a timer for 20 minutes, get your favourite cup of tea or drink and write like sitting down with a trusted friend:

• Where have I been quietly over-functioning?
• Where have I been quietly over-functioning?
• What would asking for help sound like, if I didn’t have to justify it?
• What version of myself have I quietly been missing?

Rules for writing: No editing. No stopping. No overthinking. Stop when the timer goes off.

If resentment has been living in your body lately, just try naming it.

You are likely living in a rhythm, a culture, a caretaking role that forgets the caretaker. And you’re waking up to that.

You don’t need to earn rest. You don’t need to collapse to be seen.

You get to listen to the part of you that aches—and follow it back to life.

You are not alone in this.

And no, you are not too much.

You are already enough.

If this exploration of parental resentment and the tension of living between worlds struck a chord – if you recognise that quiet bubble of resentment or the exhaustion of carrying both ancestral expectations and modern demands – please know that you’re not alone. Many parents feel this way and wonder if family life has to be such a strain.

More insights like this – I regularly write about family systems, the invisible labour of parenting, and how cultural histories shape our everyday interactions. Each piece offers another way to make sense of your own experiences and to reclaim a sense of balance.

Deeper support – Reading can be a powerful first step, but sometimes you need a safe space to unpack what’s really happening beneath the surface. I work one‑to‑one with parents and families using systemic approaches and family constellations to identify hidden patterns and create gentle, lasting shifts.

Trust your instincts – You carry an inner knowing about what your family needs. If something in this piece felt true for you, honour that. Whether it’s taking one small act of self‑care or seeking more comprehensive support, your awareness is already guiding you towards greater ease and authenticity.

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