You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and let the sugar melt on your tongue. The world outside that door is chaos. There’s the faint sound of arguing over whose turn it is with the tablet. Something has crashed—probably not important enough to investigate yet—and you swear you just heard someone yell “Mom!” for the fourth time in as many minutes. But for now, you are on a five-minute vacation behind a locked door, and that tiny act of defiance feels like survival.
We talk a lot about self-care these days—how important it is, how we should “fill our own cup,” how we can’t pour from an empty one. But no one tells you that sometimes your cup is a chipped mug filled with lukewarm coffee that you’ve reheated three times already. No one tells you that you’ll have to fight tooth and nail for even the smallest moments of peace.
When the kids are little, the idea of “me time” becomes something mythical, like a unicorn or a laundry pile that actually disappears. You don’t schedule self-care—you steal it. You snatch it out of the chaos, hoarding it in secret, savoring it when you can. Maybe it’s sitting in the driveway an extra five minutes before you go inside. Maybe it’s scrolling social media while you pretend to use the bathroom. Maybe it’s eating the last cookie in the pantry and telling everyone it’s gone.
And the thing is—you shouldn’t have to apologize for that.
Because self-care doesn’t always look pretty. It’s not always a big, graceful act of restoration. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s desperate. Sometimes it’s a woman in yesterday’s pajamas, holding her breath just to have a moment where no one needs her.
The world loves to tell mothers to “take care of themselves,” but it forgets to mention the logistics. The babysitter that costs more than the dinner out. The guilt of leaving chores undone. The way the house seems to explode the second you take your eyes off it. So we adapt. We find ways to breathe in the cracks of the day. We hide in the bathroom, we eat the chocolate, we let the dishes sit a little longer, and we call it what it is—our own imperfect version of survival.
And maybe that’s enough.
Because self-care, real self-care, isn’t about picture-perfect moments. It’s about permission—to stop, to feel, to exist as a whole human being and not just a caretaker. It’s about reclaiming a little bit of yourself in the middle of everyone else’s needs.
It’s okay if your self-care doesn’t look Instagram-ready. It’s okay if all you did today was get through it. You are still worthy of rest, of kindness, of joy—even if all you can manage right now is ten quiet minutes and a handful of chocolate chips.
And one day, when life slows down just a little, maybe self-care will look like that bubble bath. Or maybe it’ll still look like the bathroom door locked from the inside. Either way, it counts.
So here’s to the moms hiding in the bathroom, whispering to themselves, “I just need a minute.” You’re not weak. You’re not failing. You’re doing what you have to do to keep showing up—and that is the most sacred act of care there is.
Because sometimes, the most “together” thing a mom can do is close a door, eat the chocolate, and breathe. And that’s okay.
