I Have 47 Tabs Open. Only Some of Them Are on My Computer. On Mental Load, Motherhood, and the Things We Carry Without Noticing

Day 248 of a 365-day commitment to show up and write my truth | Karma Penguin

My friend — the one who built and runs literally every part of my website — was working on something for me a few months ago when he glanced at my screen and went quiet in that specific way people go quiet right before they tell you something you don't want to hear. I may have had more than 47 tabs open. He said it was slowing down my entire computer. Then, without asking me, he closed them.

Friends, I have woken up more than once since then wondering if I forgot to do something important, only to realize the reminder was living in one of the tabs he closed. Somewhere out there is a version of me who never finished ordering that thing, never followed up on that email, never remembered that appointment — and she has no idea, because the tab is gone, and so is the thought that used to live in it.

The Tabs You Can See

Here's the thing about the 47 tabs, though. Every single one of them made sense at the time. I opened them because I needed them, or thought I might need them, or genuinely could not remember if I had already looked at that page. My browser was basically a museum of every decision I hadn't finished making. And that would almost be funny — a personality quirk, a little chaotic, very on-brand — except my browser isn't actually where most of my mental load lives. It's just the one place someone else could finally see it.

The Tabs Nobody Else Can See

Right now, if you opened up my actual brain, here's roughly what you'd find running in the background: motherhood, my business, this blog, groceries I still need to buy, and seventeen — seventeen — Amazon items I need to drop off at a retail location. I'm sorry, Amazon. I did not make good purchasing decisions this month. None of them felt like bad decisions individually. I apparently just cannot be trusted with a checkout button after 9pm.

And then there's the tab that never actually closes, the one that resurfaces every single day like it's brand-new information: we have to order groceries again? Today? Didn't we just do this? I did this last Tuesday. I'm kidding, mostly — ask me again after I've made dinner four nights in a row.

I write things down. I text myself. I take screenshots of things I will never look at again. I have Notes lists for my Notes lists. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I added my husband to one of my shared notes — for one specific thing, one time — and he has never fully recovered. He is now the proud, unwilling recipient of a phone tab he did not ask for and cannot seem to turn off, no matter how many times he's asked.

Which brings me to the part I'm not proud of, but you don't sign up for 365 days of honoring your truth and then quietly opt out of the parts that don't flatter you: if my husband asks me something simple while my brain is already holding fifteen other things, there is a real chance I will snap at him.

My best ideas show up in the shower, which is deeply inconvenient, since I cannot exactly stop and write them down while covered in conditioner. My worst ones show up right as I'm falling asleep — the ones that jolt you back awake reminding you of something you absolutely should not be thinking about right now. And then there's driving, when I am apparently a rock star, arms out, "I'm the king of the world" (but really the queen), full Titanic-bow-of-the-ship energy, completely convinced I am handling everything beautifully, right up until I remember I was supposed to be focusing on the actual road.

What My Mental Load Is Actually Made Of

If I'm honest about where all of this mental weight comes from, it's not one thing. It's motherhood and work and the house and travel and calls and life and a hundred pieces of random administration, all running at the same time, while a toddler yells or toddlers her way through the day and says no to whatever I just said yes to. There is no clean split. It's just all of it, all at once, most of the time.

And when I finally finish one of those things — actually cross it off, actually close the tab for real — the relief lasts about four seconds before it's replaced by the next thought standing in line behind it. Both things are true at once, and I've stopped expecting that to change.

Here's what I think is underneath all of it: not every thought is urgent, even the ones that feel loud. Most of what I'm carrying doesn't need to live only in my head — it can be written down, said out loud, handed to someone else, or just set down for a minute. And if I don't ask for help closing a few of my own tabs every once in a while, someone else eventually will. Sometimes that someone is a website developer with great intentions and zero patience for a slow laptop.

So if you also have forty-seven tabs open, some of them real and some of them just thoughts you haven't found a place to put down yet — I see you, and I relate a little too much. You're not falling apart. You're just running more programs than any one brain was built to run at once. But caring about all of it doesn't mean you're required to personally hold all of it, every hour of every day, alone.

Some tabs are allowed to close.

If you ever want to close a few tabs on purpose instead of by accident — mine, apparently, get closed by other people — that's basically why I built The Nervous System Reset, a free guided audio and workbook. No perfect streak required, and nobody there is judging your browser history. You can download it at karmapenguin.com.

About the Author | Day 248 of 365

I'm a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, I currently have too many browser tabs open and a husband who deserves a medal. I'm working on it.

This is day 248 of a promise I made to myself: show up and write my truth for 365 days, no matter what. No ghostwriters, no filters, no skipping the hard days.

If today's post found you at the right moment, I hope it helped even a little. I'll be here again tomorrow — probably still holding a cold cup of coffee, still figuring it out in real time right alongside you.

Day 248 of 365. Come back tomorrow — I'm not stopping. 🐧