On Mothers Who Cry Over Kitchen Sinks
Yes, it's a thing.
The wailing reached me upstairs first, floating through the ceiling into my bedroom. Curious, I walked toward the sound and into the kitchen. Then I froze.
My mother stood at the sink, washing dishes while sobbing with the volcanic intensity of a lifetime of pain breaking loose. The kitchen walls stood like sentinels, witnessing her grief.
I couldn’t make sense of it. Had something happened?
This episode wasn't like her usual tearful anger during fights with my dad—those were scary, but this solo crying was terrifying. I hesitated, then did what a dutiful daughter would do.
Placing a hand on her shoulder, I softly asked, "What's the matter?"
That was precisely the wrong thing to do.
Turning only her head, Mom roared, “GET OUT!”
I bolted, as the image of her at the sink became etched in my consciousness.
My mother, a German immigrant who worked as a housekeeper for another family while also maintaining her own home, needed the space and privacy of her kitchen to absorb her pain.
What precipitated this pain wasn’t revealed that day or any day thereafter.
Mom managed only two emotions most days. Anger was first and contempt second. The rest stayed buried beneath layers of exhaustion and unacknowledged depression. My father and I learned to tiptoe around her moods, becoming caretakers of her fragile emotional state.
Keeping her steady was the only thing that mattered. I hadn’t seen this coming. Since I was the only one home, I had failed her.
I had failed all of us.
Two years later, while in college, I witnessed another breakdown at another kitchen sink.
Dr. C, a divorced Pakistani doctor who owned the house where I rented a room, stood in the same posture my mother had—hands in dishwater, back to the world, protected by the omniscience of the kitchen wall.
Dr. C was also an immigrant my mother's age but lived in a vastly different world.
Most days, when Dr. C was not at the hospital, she retreated to her bed, and her teenage daughter brought her reheated meals on trays. Still a high school student, her daughter obediently waited on her mother, shouldering caretaking responsibilities while keeping perfect grades.
After all, she was the daughter of a doctor and would someday be a doctor, too.
On that day, hearing Dr. C's agonizing sobs at the kitchen sink, I made a beeline for my room.
The memory of my mother at the sink was too fresh, and I knew I wasn't equipped to treat this pain. Even after the crying stopped, I tiptoed from my room, hoping my lady landlord had left the kitchen, not wanting to see her swollen face and acknowledge what I'd witnessed.
These women, one working class and one professional, were deeply immersed in unfathomable pain, their only confidants a kitchen wall and soapy water.
The two events got me thinking--would this be my fate someday, too?
Did all mothers cry into sinks in the very room where they prepared nourishment so their loved ones could grow and flourish?
Twenty years later, when my marriage began fraying, I discovered the answer.
Our modern sink sat in the middle of an island, open on all sides, with a view of the family room and dining nook. It offered no wall to lean against, no sanctuary for private pain.
Here was a metaphor I couldn't ignore: there was nowhere to hide, no one to face but myself, and no way to keep going as things were. I had learned about the pain that comes from a failing marriage, from too many disappointments, and from the knowledge that my children were going to be leaving the nest soon.
But I had also learned, from watching my mother, that children shouldn't have to carry their parents' emotional burdens.
I found other places for my tears—the laundry room, the bathroom, or the car. I kept myself in motion, hiding a tear-streaked face and acting like everything was fine. Unlike my mother and Dr. C, I chose spaces away from the heart of the home, protecting my children from the weight of adult sorrows.
Or at least I tried.
I didn’t turn my kids into caretakers, but I never found enough outside support either. By the time of my divorce, my mother had disowned me and my friends—well, they were running on the same hamster wheel as me. No one had time for their own breakdown, let alone someone else’s.
I wonder what would have happened if my mother and Dr. C had had allies who listened and supported them.
Both ladies had been caught in the grip of depression and exhaustion, carrying the double burden of work inside and outside the home. Both had children who cared for them instead of the other way around.
And both, I imagine, felt as alone as I did during my divorce, but without understanding arms to break down in. A therapist could have changed their trajectories. I know mine did.
But the stigma related to seeing a “shrink” back then was too great.
Decades have passed since then, yet little has changed in how society supports women carrying these emotional burdens. We still shoulder the majority of household labor, childcare, and family emotional management, often while maintaining full-time careers.
Mental health continues to be treated as a step-sister to comprehensive health care.
But perhaps the heaviest cost of this endless labor is how it robs us of the very connections that could save us—the deep female friendships that could hold us in our moments of breakdown.
Let me not forget to mention that gay men are the most loving friends around.
So many women live in isolation, without a community of female friends to advise, support, and witness their pain. The tragedy isn't just that we cry alone but that we've created a world where women are too exhausted, too busy, and too depleted to build the intimate friendships we desperately need.
My life is less busy now that my kids are grown, and I have cultivated a better support system. I don’t take friends for granted, especially at this stage of life. How do you prioritize friends or your support community?
I’d love to hear how others make you feel cared for.
Let’s end this on a lighter note. Enjoy this clip from my favorite comedian, Ali Wong, where she talks about women wanting equal pleasure.
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Thoughtful piece, Ilona. My mother never cried. She numbed her pain with alcohol and drugs. I, on the other hand, cry at the drop of a hat. Going through my divorce, I can't count the number of times I drove over the hill to the ocean crying all the way. I would continue to cry as I walked the shoreline until the tears finally dissipated. The ride home would always be reflective and calm. The shower is another place I feel comfortable crying. Thanks for shining a light on the importance of our tears. 💕
"When I divorced the preacher, an invisible Scarlet Letter A was affixed to my chest by the church ladies—supposed friends. That was when my daughters saw me crying over the kitchen sink, more than once. Perhaps the hardest part of that time wasn’t just the pain I carried, but the fact that they had to witness it.
I remember only once seeing my own mother cry at the sink. Instinctively, I knew to slip away, to give her space. My daughters did the same for me. It’s something unspoken, isn’t it? The way grief lingers in the quiet places, passed down like an inheritance none of us asked for.