It’s astonishing how much life changes when a mother pauses.
Somewhere between laundry cycles and tiny life crises, I realised that ten quiet minutes of doing absolutely nothing could restore me more than an entire day of multitasking myself into exhaustion.
Read This Your Way
(Best enjoyed in order — but jump to what you need)
- Doing Nothing Is Doing Something
- The Chaos Before the Calm – my story
- What Taking Time Looks Like and feels like
- The Guilt Trip Express and How to Miss the Train
- How to Start taking your time back and Keep the Guilt Away
- The Ripple Effect
- The Permission You’ve Been Waiting For
- If you skimmed, here’s what matters…
Doing Nothing Is Doing Something
The art of doing nothing isn’t laziness or avoidance — it’s the quiet act of choosing rest in a world that constantly asks for more.
Somewhere between packing school lunches and googling “quick dinner ideas with frozen peas,” I realised I hadn’t actually heard myself think in… I don’t even know how long.
My days had become a soft, blurry whirl of “Muuum, where’s my sock?”, half-eaten snacks, and cups of tea that died heroic, lukewarm deaths before I remembered them.
And that’s when it hit me — the one truth no one tells you when you become a mum:
You’re allowed to step away from your family for a breath,
without guilt hanging on your arm like an uninvited plus-one.
We glorify exhaustion as if it’s a badge of honour.
“Oh, I’m just so busy!” becomes our default state of being.
But honestly? That badge of honour is heavy, unattractive, and clashes with everything in your wardrobe.
And let’s be real — “me time” always sounds like something that belongs in a spa brochure written by someone who don’t have toddlers who think the bathroom is a public meeting room.
Somewhere between school runs, snack negotiations, and remembering to defrost the chicken (which I still forget), I disappeared. Not literally — just buried under a pile of laundry and invisible mental lists like “remember bananas” and “pretend you love craft day.”
But here’s the thing: taking time for yourself isn’t selfish. It’s self-preservation.
Because when Mum’s running on fumes, the whole family starts to cough.
The Chaos Before the Calm
My Story
There was this phase (okay, several years) where “relaxing” meant folding laundry while inhaling deeply and pretending it counted as meditation.
Every time I tried to pause, someone needed… something.
A snack.
A shoe.
A 14-minute explanation of why the cartoon dragon was sad.
After Miemie and ZenZen were born, I threw myself into motherhood with the dedication of a woman auditioning for “World’s Most Present Parent.”
I never missed a moment.
I remembered every note, every event, every snack.
I colour-coordinated birthday outfits like it was a competitive sport.
And I still showed up to work trying to look like a functioning adult.
I wore “busy” like it was jewellery — and exhaustion like eyeliner.
Miemie — my emotional, wise, endlessly energetic eight-year-old — treats sleep like a rumour. She can discuss the meaning of life at 9 p.m. while drawing powered by imagination and sheer will.
ZenZen — my three-year-old, tornado wrapped in curls — believes everything in the house (including my sanity) is hers by divine right.
Between the two of them, silence became extinct — and somewhere in the pursuit of perfect motherhood, I disappeared too. My body kept moving, but the woman inside got quieter.
My clothes stopped fitting — not just my body, but my identity.
I stopped seeing friends, stopped saying yes to things that were just for me, and started believing that feeling drained was simply part of the mum contract.
One morning in early 2025, with both girls out — Miemie at school and ZenZen at daycare — I took one of those deep, grounding, “enough is enough” breaths.
One of those breaths that starts somewhere behind your ribs.
There was no dramatic breakdown.
Just a soft, steady realisation: I can’t keep living like this.
So, I sat down with my cup of tea.
And for the first time in years…
…I did absolutely nothing.
No chores.
No scrolling.
No multitasking.
Just breathing.
Even the goldfish looked alarmed, like “Is she… okay?”
But after five quiet minutes, I felt lighter.
Not transformed — just present.
Like someone had gently handed me my thoughts back.
It was the first time in years I could actually hear my own thoughts without someone shouting “Muuum!” over them.
Then came the small changes — my tiny acts of rebellion against burnout:
- Five minutes of cloud watching after school drop-off.
- Sitting on the kitchen floor at night, letting the dishwasher hum me back to life.
- Eating food that made me feel alive, not just full.
- Moving my body because it felt good, not because I was punishing it.
The first few times, I kept checking the clock — because mums measure peace in guilt.
But slowly, I stopped counting minutes and started counting deep breaths and quiet laughs.
Those little rituals slowly brought me back to life.
I became lighter — not just in weight, but in spirit.
I laughed more. Complained less.
I stopped snapping at AG about who was “more tired,” and began enjoying the tiny, chaotic moments that used to drain me.
I became softer.
More me.
Halfway through that personal reboot came the choice that truly changed everything: Thursdays.
After ZenZen was born, I went back to work four days a week.
Thursdays were supposed to be our special “mum-daughter day,” but in reality, they became just another marathon of errands, chores, and a frantic checklist of everything I hadn’t gotten done during the week.
I was running on autopilot, and “days off” felt anything but restful.
So, I made what felt like a scandalous decision:
Send her to daycare five days a week — just for a month.
An experiment. A test. A tiny slice of sanity.
The first Thursday was drenched in guilt.
The house was too quiet, so as a true mum, I filled the silence with chores — cleaning cupboards that didn’t need cleaning, sorting tiny socks that didn’t need sorting.
But under all that motion was a whisper:
“What kind of mum sends her kid away when she finally has time with her?”
The next Thursday rolled around, and though the guilt still hovered, I took the longest, most gloriously uninterrupted bath in years.
Candle lit. Steam rising. Silence — the kind that hums instead of screams.
By the third Thursday, I stopped apologising to myself.
I went out for lunch with my girlfriends.
We laughed — loudly, freely, the kind of laugh that starts in your belly and reminds you, you’re people first, mothers second, and you’re still alive under all the layers of responsibility.
And when I picked ZenZen up that evening, she was the same joyful little girl — but I wasn’t the same.
I was rested.
Present.
Human.
She got a mum who wasn’t running on fumes, and I got to meet myself again — the version who still knew how to breathe, how to enjoy, how to exist beyond the to-do.
And in that version of me, I found the spark I’d lost.
The spark that reminded me how much of myself I’d shelved — the writer, the dreamer, the woman who saw stories in food, travel, and chaos.
I started writing again — small notes to myself, little love letters to rediscovery — reminders that pausing isn’t giving up.
It’s coming home to yourself.
Who would have thought that that seed of stillness would grow into something bigger: the beginning of Eat Play Travel with Sid — a space to share the moments that save your sanity and remind you who you are beneath the mum badge.
A little corner of the internet where I could share the pieces of motherhood and womanhood that often go unseen.
What Taking Time Looks Like
and Feels Like
If any part of that sounds like your life on loop — take a breath.
Not a shallow, rushed one.
A real one.
You’re not failing.
You’re not lost.
You’re simply buried under the weight of being everything to everyone.
Your version of this doesn’t need to start with daycare or a diary epiphany.
Taking time for yourself doesn’t always mean bubble baths and candles (though I fully endorse both).
Your version of “time for yourself” might be tiny and imperfect and stolen — but that’s enough.
It can start with something as simple as:
- A 10-minute car concert — windows up, 90s playlist blaring, where you’re the lead singer and the driveway is your arena.
- A coffee enjoyed hot — not reheated three times while rescuing crayons from under the couch. It’s not heroic, just human.
- A walk without narrating it for your toddler’s YouTube channel. Just you, fresh air, and maybe a podcast that doesn’t start with “Baby Shark.”
- A solo supermarket trip where you read labels and hum along to the store playlist like it’s Coachella. (Yes, even aisle six can feel like freedom when no one’s asking for snacks.)
It’s about creating tiny islands of peace in the sea of chaos.
Because the truth is, you don’t need more hours — you just need to claim back a few of them.
And in those quiet minutes, you might just remember who you were before you were “Mum” — the woman who laughed easily, danced in the kitchen, and believed she deserved rest.
Because that time away doesn’t pull you apart from your family:
it pieces you back together.
The Guilt Trip Express
and How to Miss the Train
Of course, guilt shows up right on schedule.
Every time I even think of doing something just for me — a tea alone, lunch with friends or a walk without a child narrating the life story of every passing ant — that voice pipes up.
You know that familiar little voice that sounds suspiciously like your own, whispering:
“You should be cleaning.”
“You should be replying.”
“You should be doing something productive.”
That voice is persuasive — but wrong.
Because when you take time for yourself, you’re not being selfish; you’re recharging the captain, so the ship doesn’t crash.
Think of yourself as the family Wi-Fi: when you’re down, everything buffers.
Here’s the truth I wish someone had told me earlier:
A rested mum is a better mum.
A calmer mum.
A happier mum.
You can’t pour from an empty cup, no matter how caffeinated you are (and believe me, I’ve tried).
Rest isn’t indulgent.
Stillness isn’t wasteful.
Doing nothing isn’t laziness.
It’s healing.
When you step back to recharge, you’re not abandoning your family — you’re making sure the version of you that returns isn’t the one who forgets it’s Pyjama Day and shows up in sequins.
So, the next time guilt tries to hand you a ticket to the Guilt Trip Express —
smile politely, hand it back, and say,
“Sorry, not boarding today.”
How to Start taking your time back
and Keep the Guilt Away
Now that you’ve told guilt to take the next train out, here’s how to make that peace stick — even when life tries to pull you back into the chaos.
- Schedule your time like it’s sacred.
If you can block doctor appointments and parent-teacher meetings, you can block you. Treat your calendar like your best friend — because that’s what she’s becoming.
- Start small.
Ten minutes. One coffee. One page of a book. One deep breath that’s actually deep.
Tiny moments done consistently matter more than grand gestures done never.
- Say no without over-explaining.
“I need a minute” is a full sentence. You don’t owe anyone an essay, a PowerPoint, or a side of guilt with your boundaries.
- Listen when your body whispers before it screams.
When it flashes, don’t ignore it. Refuel. Reboot. Reset. Because no one wins when Mum’s engine stalls.
The Ripple Effect
When you fill your cup, it overflows into your family.
Your home feels it — it feels brighter.
Your partner feels it — he feels happier.
Your kids feel it — they feel loved.
You teach them balance, boundaries, and that self-love isn’t selfish.
You’re modelling emotional intelligence, not indulgence.
And that? That’s the kind of lesson they’ll carry far longer than how to tie their shoes.
When I come back from even a small reset, my kids swear I’ve been replaced by the “nice mum.”
I laugh more, yell less, and don’t threaten to donate all their toys to charity (okay, maybe just half).
Your energy shifts.
Your tone softens.
You start to feel like you again — you who loved music, laughter, long showers, and not always being needed.
Motherhood doesn’t erase that woman — she just gets buried under a pile of wet towels.
You owe it to yourself (and your family) to dig her back out.
The Permission You’ve Been Waiting For
You don’t need a spa weekend or a flight to Bali (though both sound divine).
You just need permission — from yourself — to pause.
Let the laundry wait.
Let the goldfish judge.
Let your mind breathe.
Take the nap.
Book the massage.
Drink the coffee hot.
Do whatever makes you feel human again — not just “Mum on duty.”
Because a balanced, revived mum doesn’t just survive motherhood — she dances through it (occasionally tripping but always getting back up with a laugh and a latte).
And no, the world won’t fall apart if you sit still.
But your joy might just fall back into place if you do.
When you take care of you, everyone wins.
And the next time someone asks how you stay so calm, just smile and say,
“Oh, you know — I finally started doing nothing.”
If you skimmed, here’s what matters…
Maybe “doing nothing” isn’t really about stillness at all — maybe it’s about space.
Space to hear your own thoughts.
Space to feel joy without an agenda.
Space to just exist without proving, fixing, or folding anything.
Because the truth is, motherhood will always be a beautiful, exhausting blur — but in between the school runs and snack refills, there’s a version of you who’s still there, waiting to be seen.
She doesn’t need much — just a little quiet, a little kindness, and the courage to pause.
So, take the moment. Sit in it.
And when the world feels heavy, remember — peace was never lost. You just got too busy to notice it.
I stopped moving, and the world came closer.
Peace was never gone — it was simply waiting for me to pause.
Tell me – what’s one tiny moment of “doing nothing” you’re giving yourself this week?
Share it in the comments or tag me on Instagram @eatplaytravelwithsid — I’d love to celebrate your pause.
I’ll be here, cup of tea in hand, breathing a little deeper and smiling as you choose yourself for a minute.
The Sidentity Trilogy
Rediscovering Me
Three stories. One truth.
You don’t have to lose yourself to love them — you just have to come home to you.
A three-part journey back to the woman beneath the mum badge. Read the full trilogy:
- Rest: The Art of Doing Nothing
- Release: Emotional Decluttering
-
Rediscover: Repacking My Dreams
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I can relate and I don’t even have kids
I love that you felt this — it really isn’t just about having kids. Thank you for reading and relating 💛