“Make sure you take some time for yourself,” they said.
Ah yes. Me time. The mythical unicorn of motherhood. The phrase that sounds lovely on paper, like something achievable — right between the laundry and the mental breakdown.
In my head, “me time” looks like a magazine cover: candles lit, hair washed, a face mask that doesn’t terrify the postman, and maybe even silence. In real life? It’s me standing alone in the pantry waiting for the microwave to ding and scrolling my phone, hiding from everyone for precisely 2 minutes and 30 seconds minutes before someone shout for me.
“For mums, self-care isn’t an event — it’s survival.”
When you become a mum, the concept of rest becomes… flexible.
You start redefining it in micro-moments: the first sip of coffee before anyone wakes up or before they are fully awake anyway and still in that snoozy cuddly morning state enjoying some warm milk, it’s walking round the supermarket alone like it’s a spa day, or finishing a full hot drink without reheating it three times.
Some days, I still chase the big version — the long shower, the quiet afternoon, the mythical solo nap — and then feel deflated when it doesn’t happen. But maybe the problem isn’t us failing to find “me time.” Maybe it’s that the definition we’ve been sold doesn’t fit real life.
Because for mums, self-care isn’t an event. It’s survival. It’s taking the tiny windows and letting them count. It’s choosing to exhale when you could keep rushing.
Sometimes it’s just washing your hair and not doing anyone else’s washing straight after.
The truth? Most of the time, I don’t need a spa day — I need five uninterrupted minutes without being asked where someone’s shoes are. I don’t need a candlelit yoga session — I need a sandwich I didn’t have to share.
“Me time” doesn’t have to look like stillness. Sometimes it’s loud, messy, quick, chaotic — but it’s yours. It’s the playlist in the car, the walk down an extra aisle in Tesco, the laugh in the group chat that makes you feel human again.
And one day, when life feels slightly less full, maybe there’ll be big, uninterrupted versions of rest again. But for now, I’m learning to find it where I can — in the gaps, not the getaways.
Because real self-care isn’t a manicure or a mantra — it’s permission.
Permission to stop, even for a moment.
Permission to matter in the middle of the madness
