People often tell women we can have it all.

We are told we can build careers, raise families, create impact, chase purpose and somehow hold every piece of life together all at once. The message is often packaged as empowerment. Work hard enough and we can be everything to everyone.

As Aboriginal women, there can be even more attached to that expectation. There is culture, community, leadership, responsibility, and representation. And somewhere within all of that sits an unspoken expectation that we not only carry ourselves, but that we carry others too.

For a long time, I believed I could hold all of it. Maybe a part of me still does. But lately I have found myself sitting with a harder question.

Can we really have it all? And if we can, what does it cost us?

I have spent a lot of time reflecting on the complexities of being an Aboriginal woman and what it means to be truly honest with myself. Not the polished kind of honesty we speak about after we have healed. I mean the uncomfortable honesty that comes while you are still in the middle of it. The honesty that arrives while life is still moving and expectations are still sitting on your shoulders.

As Aboriginal women, many of us grow up watching extraordinary women around us. Mothers, grandmothers, aunties and community leaders who somehow hold families together, carry culture and continue showing up for everyone around them while quietly placing themselves last.

Strength becomes something we inherit. But responsibility does too. As life moves forward, many of us become multiple things to multiple people. We become daughters, mothers, mentors, leaders, advocates, businesswomen and friends.

Over time, the lines can begin to blur.

You become so focused on checking in on everyone else that you stop checking in on yourself. You keep giving. You keep carrying. You keep showing up. And somewhere along the way, you can begin losing pieces of yourself.

Motherhood has been one of the greatest joys in my life, but it has also brought vulnerabilities I never expected.

As a mum to a 15-year-old son, I often find myself standing in unfamiliar territory. He is no longer a little boy, but he is not yet a man. I am trying to work out how to protect him while also giving him room to become who he is.

I want him to trust me enough to tell me things. I want to be his safe place. But I also know my role is guidance, boundaries and preparing him for a world that can sometimes be harder on young Aboriginal boys.

Like many mothers, I quietly ask myself questions. How much mum? How much friend? Am I saying enough? Am I saying too much?

Alongside being a mum also comes another pressure many women know all too well, and one that can feel even heavier as a single mum.

The pressure of paying the bills.

The pressure of making sure there is food on the table, uniforms are washed and appointments are made.

Because motherhood does not pause for exhaustion.

Your days become a balancing act of school assemblies, doctor appointments and those dreaded calls from school asking you to come and collect your child. Sometimes those calls bring disappointment. Sometimes frustration. Sometimes guilt.

Because while you are sitting in meetings or trying to focus on work, another part of your mind is wondering whether you are getting any of it right.

I often found myself asking a question many parents quietly carry. How do we keep full time jobs while trying to hold all of this together?

For me, the answer became creating something of my own.

I turned to business because I needed flexibility. I needed work that could fit around my son and the realities of motherhood. I needed the freedom to show up where I was needed most without feeling like I was constantly choosing between work and family.

But with that freedom came another layer of complexity. Because while entrepreneurship gave me flexibility, it also brought uncertainty.

People often see the highlight reel. They see the events, opportunities, travel and photographs. They see growth and success. What they do not see is the pressure. The pressure to remain visible. The pressure to keep saying yes. The pressure to keep showing up. And the quiet fear that if you stop, people move on.

Sometimes it feels like relevance has an expiry date.

Lately, I have become more aware of burnout and the warning signs that come with it. I can see it creeping in much earlier than I normally would. I recognise the emotional exhaustion, the mental fatigue and the feeling of running on empty. Maybe that awareness comes from being honest with myself for the first time in a long time. Because when you spend so much of your life carrying everyone else, eventually your body starts whispering before it begins screaming.

Over recent months, I have also been unwell. Not the kind of unwell people always see or understand, but the kind that slowly drains you physically, mentally and emotionally.

Being unwell changes things: your energy, your patience, and your thinking.

Yet life still expects you to function as though nothing has changed. People still need things. Expectations do not pause. Work still needs doing.

So, you do what many women do. You smile. You reassure people you are okay. You keep showing up. Even when the smile is fake. Even when you are mentally exhausted. Even when you are physically exhausted.

And while carrying the weight of being unwell, I have concurrently borne the brunt of extreme lateral violence. Not quietly. Not occasionally. But in ways that have tested me beyond what I thought I could carry.

There have been moments where I have sat with myself asking a question I know many women quietly ask behind closed doors. How much more can I take? Because there are the battles no one sees. The tears after everyone has gone home. The self-doubt. The exhaustion. The moments where you are trying to hold yourself together while still showing up for everyone around you.

And then there are the battles people do see. The criticism. The judgement. The dragging of your name through the mud. The questioning of your character and intentions.

What people often fail to understand is that those battles do not exist separately. The quiet battles happening behind the scenes and the public battles unfolding on the surface sit on top of each other.

Eventually the weight becomes heavy. Very heavy.

People often think strong women are immune. But strong women still hurt. Strong women still question themselves. Strong women still become tired.

Perhaps that is exactly why I wanted to write this. Not because I have all the answers. Not because I have it all figured out. I wanted my story to be an inspiration for women carrying heavy things while pretending they are okay. Women smiling through pain. Women surviving while quietly falling apart. Women suffering in silence.

You do not have to prove your strength by struggling alone.

Too often women become experts at asking everyone else if they are okay while never answering that question honestly for themselves. We check in on our children, our families, our colleagues and our communities, yet quietly convince ourselves that we have to carry our own struggles alone.

We were never meant to do life that way.

Talk to one another. Check in with each other properly. Not with a quick "How are you?" asked in passing, but with the kind of conversations that create space for honesty. Create spaces where women can speak openly about exhaustion, burnout, motherhood, pressure and pain without fear of judgement.

Because sometimes one conversation can change everything.

Sometimes one phone call, one coffee, one message or one person saying, "I see you. Are you really okay?" can make the difference between someone suffering in silence and someone feeling held.

Lean on your village.

Call your people.

Put your hand up.

And if you notice another woman becoming quieter, more tired or carrying more than usual, reach out and sit beside her.

Because perhaps the women we describe as the strongest are the very women who need holding the most.