Why Does My Brain Feel Like It Has 47 Tabs Open?

I stood in Tesco staring at an empty trolley.

I had driven there specifically to buy one thing.

One important thing.

The entire purpose of the trip was to buy that thing.

And yet, standing in the middle of the supermarket, I had absolutely no idea what it was.

I checked my phone.

Nothing.

I walked up and down the aisles hoping inspiration would strike.

Nothing.

Eventually I went home with several things I didn't need and still no recollection of the one thing I'd originally gone for.

A few years ago I would have laughed this off as being forgetful.

These days, I see it differently.

Because I don't think most parents are forgetful.

I think we're overloaded.

When people talk about mental load, we often imagine remembering birthdays, booking dentist appointments or knowing when children need new school shoes.

But that's only the visible part.

The invisible part is much bigger.

It's remembering that your child seemed unusually anxious after Wednesday's football practice.

It's noticing that they slept badly after spending time with certain friends.

It's remembering that school mentioned something similar six months ago.

It's keeping track of medication, assessments, forms, appointments, work deadlines, family plans and all the tiny decisions that hold a household together.

Most of us aren't just carrying today's responsibilities.

We're carrying hundreds of unfinished thoughts from yesterday, last week and next month.

No wonder our brains feel full.

One evening I found myself trying to work while a dozen browser tabs sat open across my laptop.

One tab contained a work presentation.

Another was a school email.

Another was an article I'd meant to read.

There were three shopping tabs.

Two holiday tabs.

A calendar tab.

A recipe tab.

And several mysterious tabs I couldn't even remember opening.

It suddenly struck me that my brain felt exactly the same.

Every responsibility was sitting there in the background, quietly consuming energy.

None of them were urgent enough to demand my immediate attention.

But together they were exhausting.

That was the moment the phrase Too Many Tabs was born.

Not because of technology.

Because it perfectly described how life felt.

Many parents tell themselves they need to become more organised.

More disciplined.

More efficient.

For years I believed that too.

I bought planners.

Downloaded productivity apps.

Created spreadsheets.

Started colour-coding calendars.

Some helped.

Most didn't.

The problem wasn't that I lacked organisation.

The problem was that I was trying to manage an impossible amount of information inside my own head.

You can't productivity-hack your way out of carrying too much.

At some point, the issue isn't capability.

It's capacity.

For parents raising neurodivergent children, the number of tabs often multiplies.

There's the version of your child the world sees.

Then there's the version you see at home.

There are observations you don't want to forget.

School conversations you need to remember.

Emails you might need later.

Patterns that only become visible when viewed over time.

Many parents become accidental detectives, researchers, administrators and advocates without ever expecting to take on those roles.

Yet because much of this work happens quietly, it can feel as though we're struggling alone.

The reality is that many of us are carrying far more than anyone else realises.

This was probably the most important thing I eventually learned.

Nothing was wrong with me.

I wasn't lazy.

I wasn't failing.

I wasn't bad at organisation.

I wasn't incapable of keeping up.

I was simply carrying too much.

There is enormous relief in recognising the difference.

Because once you stop treating overload as a personal failure, you can start looking for practical ways to reduce the load itself.

The answer isn't to become the perfect parent.

The answer isn't to remember everything.

The answer isn't another complicated productivity system.

Sometimes the first step is simply recognising that your brain was never designed to carry every thought, every responsibility and every worry indefinitely.

Sometimes we need somewhere to put those thoughts.

Somewhere to capture observations.

Somewhere to stop relying on memory alone.

And sometimes we need permission to admit that this is hard.

Really hard.

The phrase Close the Tab became my reminder that I don't need to hold everything at once.

I don't need to solve every problem today.

I don't need to carry every future worry in the present moment.

I only need to focus on the tab that's open right now.

And honestly?

That's usually enough.

Close the Tab is my memoir about navigating work, family life, neurodivergent parenting and the invisible load that comes with trying to hold everything together.

If you're tired of feeling like you're the only one struggling to keep up, I hope it reminds you of something important:

You're not broken.

You're not failing.

You probably just have too many tabs open. 💜