Everyday from 9 to 6, I sit across from a mother of two.

She is the embodiment of a superwoman, and often reminds me of my own mother in how she jumped back from her second pregnancy and waltzed straight into the office like she hadn’t just given life to a tiny new human.

She’s always on calls, always stressed out, always on a tight deadline, and always delivering. Always.

She told me about the struggles of pumping in the car on the way home from the office, grappling for time in between meetings on the same day that I almost called in sick because I couldn’t imagine facing another day. She told me how she feels like she has no time for herself after giving it all to her children and her job. And yet, here I was, with no lives dependant on me and no one to care for but myself (for the most part), and I was the one fighting to keep the tears in.

Frankly, it felt a little embarrassing. She was a walking, talking, breastfeeding reminder of how weak I was in comparison.

But then, as if God himself heard my negative inner talk, she cried.

The rickety old chair she was sitting on reached the end of its lifespan just as she was dragging it to the other side of the table we all share as a makeshift desk. One pull and… crack.

It fell apart, and so did she.

“I’m tired,” she said, laughing and covering her face. But the laughter quickly turned to tears as the proverbial straw broke her back. And just like that, the cape came off to reveal a human.

Just like me.