By Dr. Tiffany Sayles

For years, I lived in a world that spun on the axis of my four “Wills”—my husband, Willie, and our three daughters, Willow, Willany, and Willay. It’s a line I now say with a laugh, but in the earlier chapters of my life, it was far from funny. Most days, I was a mom who ran on empty, surviving on fumes, unsure if I’d ever find the strength to breathe deeply again. My reality was one of constant motion. Yet even in those crazy, busy days, resilience was quietly born in the chaos along with the hope that fullness might one day replace emptiness.

One of the most vivid memories from that season unfolded right in my driveway. My husband juggled a full-time job and a full-time catering business, which meant I often managed the demands of our household and children alone. My days began at 4:30 a.m., which was the only time I had to exercise and sit quietly with God before the whirlwind began.

From there, the routine was relentless: wake the girls, get them dressed, fed, and off to school; then drive an hour to my job as a school counselor, supporting students through challenges that often mirrored my own exhaustion. After a full day of giving, I’d race to pick up the girls, help with homework, listen to their stories, cook, clean, and prepare to do it all again the next day. I remember wondering, When do I get to breathe?

One particular day, chaos peaked. All three girls had after-school events at different locations—at the same time. My already small support circle was stretched thin, so I found myself doing mental and physical aerobics, trying to be in three places at once. We survived and finally arrived home late that evening. Too tired to notice, I saw the fuel light glowing.

My tank was empty, not because I forgot to get gas, but because I didn’t have the money for it. At that moment, something inside me broke. My girls were already in the house as I sat in the car, gripping the steering wheel, crying soul-shaking tears. I knew my daughters were waiting for me, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t be the engine that kept everyone running. All I could do was cry and pray.

I don’t remember my exact words, but I remember staring at that gas gauge like it was a mirror. I was beyond empty in every way.  I had poured out for everyone: my marriage, my children, my students, my ministry. Yet I hadn’t left enough to show up for myself. I didn’t know the way forward, but deep within, I knew one thing with certainty: something had to change.

Life couldn’t keep pressing on like this. I cried out to God, confessing that it was all too much and that I didn’t know how much longer I could keep going. Then, in the stillness, a quiet, steady voice broke through the silence, whispering a truth that anchored me: “My grace is sufficient.”

You see, I was running on G “grace,” which felt well below empty. While God’s grace truly carried me, I had to face another truth: I had mastered the art of taking care of everyone except me. I had proudly accepted the superwoman torch passed down through generations of strong, independent African American women.

These women worked from sunup to sundown with no man around. Though my life looked different, I was still walking a similar path, one that I realized could lead me to an early grave. I was definitely living in the 79.5% of Black mothers working while raising children under 18, and this is the highest rate among major racial groups. Even with graduate degrees, I was balancing multiple jobs and responsibilities. 

That day, I faced the reality that nothing would change unless I chose to change. I began by carving out a few hours each week just for myself. Then, unashamedly, I started taking one full day away each month. Believe it or not, my family survived. I eventually realized that the greatest gift I could give them wasn’t my exhaustion; it was the best version of me. I had to learn to be poured into, to rest, and to simply be.

To those who may read this and question my choices or call it selfish, allow me to help you understand. Self-care is not neglect. It is actually stewardship. Self-care is how we ensure we can keep showing up for the people we love without losing ourselves in the process.

So, to every mom running on “G,” I challenge you to pause and take off the cape. Learn to breathe, rest, and refuel. You deserve to be whole for your family and, most importantly, for yourself.