You finally book the class, buy the ticket, lace up for the run, or take the long bath with the door actually locked. Then that familiar tug arrives — the one that whispers you should be doing something else for your child, your partner, your job. It’s not just a feeling. It’s a story you’ve been handed for years.
The café smells like toast and rain. You stir your flat white and watch a dad coax a toddler into a buggy with oat bars and hope. For the first time in months, nobody needs you in the next ten minutes, and the silence is almost loud. We’ve all had that moment when joy catches in your throat and somehow turns into a lump.
Your phone face-down on the table, you still imagine it buzzing: the school calling, the guilt arriving, the tiny internal jury tapping its pen. You picture bedtime tantrums and the dishwasher you didn’t load, then glance at the book you’ve been meaning to read since spring. You want this hour. You also want to be a good mum. The chair creaks as you lean back. Then the guilt taps your shoulder.
Why the guilt bites when you choose yourself
Motherhood shifts the ground under your feet, and the first thing to slide is permission. You learn to be available, attuned, generous, and then the culture quietly adds a clause: be available always. That invisible clause makes every choice feel like a test. There’s no invigilator, just the hum of shoulds that collect in the corners of your day like dust. You are not selfish for needing a life that isn’t only logistics.
Ask Abbie, 34, from North London. She booked a Sunday pottery class after two years of interrupted sleep, and on the morning of it she stood in the hallway holding a tote bag and the kind of guilt that makes your ears hot. Her son waved a paint-stained hand and went back to Lego. On the Tube she counted reasons to turn back, and still she went. She came home with a wobbly bowl and steadier shoulders.
Guilt and love arrive together because they share a root: care. The feeling often isn’t proof you’re wrong; it’s proof you value something deeply and fear messing it up. That’s the paradox — you want to be present, and you also want to be a person. Naming that conflict helps. When you say “this is a values tangle, not a verdict,” the knot loosens. The job isn’t to erase guilt. It’s to make space for it without letting it drive.
What to do in the moment: tools that actually work
Start with a 90-second reset. Sit, breathe low into your belly, and whisper a line that separates feeling from fact: “I feel guilty because I care, and I’m choosing this hour because I care too.” Then add a micro-ritual to bookend your time: before you leave, write one helpful thing you’ll do for your child later; when you return, arrive gently — a ten-second hug, a glass of water, your phone away. That’s a simple loop your brain can trust.
Plan the wobble. Text your partner or a friend a single sentence you can copy and paste when doubt hits: “I’m out for me-time, guilt is loud, please remind me it’s good.” Keep your phone on do-not-disturb with emergency bypass for the school. Notice the urge to overcompensate by filling the rest of the day with chores; that turns rest into debt. Let’s be honest: nobody really does this every day. The aim is a rhythm, not a spreadsheet.
Switch the script you use with yourself. When guilt says “good mums don’t do this,” you answer with evidence: “Good mums model boundaries, fun, and recovery. My child learns that grown-ups are human.” Keep it short and repeatable. Small sentences save you when your brain is busy.
“Guilt is a smoke alarm, not a court ruling — check for fire, then go back to making your life.”
- Anchor phrase: “I’m allowed to enjoy this and still be a good mum.”
- Pre-commit: book, pay, or ask a friend to meet you so backing out is harder.
- Time-box: 45–120 minutes beats “someday” every time.
- Visibility: tell your child simply, “Mum is going to her class, I’ll be back for tea.”
- Aftercare: two minutes of transitions — shoes off, slow breath, soft hello.
Let your kids see you choose you
Children notice less what we say than how we live. When they see you return from a swim smelling of chlorine and smiling, they don’t log abandonment; they log possibility. You can say, “I missed you and I loved my time,” and their nervous system learns that love doesn’t mean erasing yourself. That’s a gift that lands years later, when they face their own tangle of shoulds and wants.
It’s not indulgence; it’s maintenance. Your rest oils the hinges of your patience. Your hobby gives your humour somewhere to stretch. Your friendships keep you remembered by people who knew you before you were mum, which can be a lifeline on grey Tuesdays. There will be seasons when me-time shrinks to crumbs, and seasons when it returns like a tide. Neither season defines you. What matters is to keep signalling — to yourself and your family — that you are more than the list on the fridge.
Imagine your child at 25 telling a friend, “My mum loved us, and she loved her life.” That story begins with small, ordinary choices that look like nothing and feel like oxygen. Share them. Ask for them. Swear quietly as you put on your trainers and go anyway. You might still hear the guilt, like a faint radio in another room. Let it play while you do the living.
| Point clé | Détail | Intérêt pour le lecteur |
|---|---|---|
| Reframe the feeling | Treat guilt as information, not a sentence | Stops spirals and keeps you moving |
| Bookend your time | Simple pre- and post-rituals that build trust | Makes me-time easier to start and end |
| Model aloud | Tell kids you’re going out and coming back | Teaches boundaries without drama |
FAQ :
- How do I know if the guilt is telling me something I should act on?If there’s a real fire — safety, illness, a promise you truly need to keep — you’ll know because the action is clear. If it’s just a buzz of “should,” make a note for later and continue.
- What if my partner or family fuels the guilt?Name it calmly and set terms: “I’m out 10–12 on Saturdays. Happy to swap times with you.” Repeat. Consistency beats one big argument.
- Won’t my child feel rejected if I leave for me-time?Kids feel secure when routines and returns are predictable. A warm goodbye, a clear plan, and a reliable hello give them a map.
- I try to rest and end up doom-scrolling. Any fix?Pick one pre-decided activity and set a tiny start cue — trainers by the door, book on the table, kettle on. Friction down, joy up.
- How often “should” I do something just for me?There’s no single right rhythm. Aim for regular and real: weekly if you can, fortnightly if you must, five-minute pockets on tough days.
