Diary of a Lagos Mum: The loneliness nobody talks about

Motherhood is often painted as a picture of joy and fulfillment, of children’s laughter echoing through the house, bedtime stories ending in cuddles, little arms wrapped tightly around your neck. And yes, those wet kisses plastered on your cheeks. Those moments are real, they exist. But behind that bright picture lies another reality many mothers rarely speak of: the deep, gnawing loneliness that often shadows us.

This loneliness doesn’t come because we lack love for our children. It isn’t because we don’t value the lives we’ve built. It comes because, somewhere between raising children, building careers, managing homes, and surviving the chaos of Lagos life, we slowly lose pieces of ourselves, even our identity. And in losing those pieces, we find ourselves standing alone.

I remember a particular Saturday. The house was noisy all morning, cartoons blaring from the TV, my children arguing over who got the bigger pancake and whose turn it is to wash the dishes. By evening, the children had settled in their rooms and the house now quiet. Too quiet, I thought. I sat on the sofa and scrolled through my phone, and suddenly I realized: I had no one to really talk to about how I was feeling.

Yes, I had a few friends. Yes, I had family. But somehow, the words felt stuck in my throat Everyone was busy with their own lives, and I didn’t want to bother them with mine. It hit me then that loneliness isn’t always about being physically alone. It’s about being unseen, unheard, and carrying a weight you don’t know how to share.

One of my closest friends, Daniela is also a single mum in Lagos, she’d walked out of an abusive marriage of fifteen years. She works in a bank so her schedule is even tighter than mine. A few months ago, she called me late at night. Her voice was heavy, almost breaking.

“Benie I’m tired. I got home at 9 p.m., and my son was already asleep. I didn’t even get to hear about his day. Sometimes I feel like I’m just a provider, not a mother. Everyone sees me as strong, but inside, I feel invisible.”

I could hear the loneliness in her words. I could feel it because I was living it too. We ended up talking until almost midnight, not because we solved her problems, but because sharing made her feel less alone and light.

That’s the hidden power of these moments: loneliness loses some of its grip when we speak it out loud. But so often, we stay silent.

Loneliness as a mum is unique because it often hides behind busy schedules and loud responsibilities. On the surface, you are constantly surrounded by people, children, colleagues, neighbors. Yet in reality, you can feel utterly alone.

 Before motherhood, you were someone’s friend, colleague, sister. It’s easy to become only “Mummy.” You begin to miss the “you” that existed before diapers and school runs. When you are the primary caregiver or single parent, the weight is heavier. Every bill, every decision, every worry sits squarely on your shoulders.

Friends without children may not understand your struggles, while those with families of their own are also swamped. Slowly, the support system you once relied on grows thinner and we should not forget that women in our society are expected to “endure.” Talking about loneliness can feel like weakness, so we bottle it up.

I once had a day where I felt the weight of loneliness so deeply it almost scared me. I had spent hours with my kids, running errands, cooking, helping with homework. Yet, at night, when they were asleep, I sat on the balcony staring at the streetlights. A thought crossed my mind: If I disappeared tomorrow, would my children miss me I wondered? Or perhaps, in a matter of weeks life will go on I guess. I shook such scary thoughts out of my mind. Nothing in the world will ever take me away from my children except when God calls me.

It’s not that I doubt my children’s love. It’s that in the busyness of being everything for them a, I felt like nobody was anything for me. That is the unspoken reality of so many Lagos mums.

But here’s the twist: sometimes, the very children we feel chained to in loneliness become the ones who unknowingly pull us back.

One evening, after a particularly rough day, I snapped at my son during dinner. He went quiet, then looked up at me and asked, “Mummy, what’s the problem?”

I froze. I wanted to deny it. But then he slid his hand into mine and said, “It’s okay. Everything will be alright. I’ll sit a bit with you.”

And as I sat beside Osa my teenage son that night…not from sadness, it was a reminder that I wasn’t as invisible as I thought. Sometimes the love we crave is already beside us, waiting for us to pause and receive it.

Over time, I’ve discovered small but practical ways to manage the loneliness I feel. Even if it’s just one or two fellow mums, talk, vent, share. We need safe spaces where we don’t feel judged. Taking care of yourself should be a foremost thought. Sometimes, it’s a quiet walk, a short nap, or ten minutes of journaling. Little acts of kindness to yourself matter.

You must try to remember the woman you were before motherhood. Read that book, take that class, dance to that old playlist. Keep pieces of you alive.

Loneliness in motherhood is real, and it’s powerful. But it doesn’t mean we are broken. It simply means we are human. To every mother reading this, I want you to know you are not alone in your loneliness. Somewhere, another mum is staring at her phone late at night, wishing she had someone to talk to, just like you.

The silence doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real. And real mums are the strongest kind of women I know.

Have you ever felt the loneliness that motherhood brings? How did you deal with it? Did you find ways to cope, or are you still figuring it out? Share your story.

(Column by Benie Amirize, an author and children/mental health advocate)