Let’s have a proper chat about something I’ve been thinking about lately: when did we all get so bad at looking after ourselves? And I don’t mean the “treat yourself to a spa day” influencer kind of self-care; who has the time or money for that? I mean the realistic, actually-doable kind that doesn’t need booking months in advance.
Last Tuesday, I found myself standing in the kitchen at 9pm, eating cold fish fingers straight from the fridge because I’d fed everyone else and forgotten my own dinner. Again. And I thought, “When did I become this person?”
We all do it, don’t we? We put ourselves last; not heroically, just because someone has to, and it’s easier if it’s us. But here’s what I’ve learned: you don’t have to choose between being a good mum and being a person. They’re not mutually exclusive.
This isn’t about luxury self-care; it’s about small, practical ways to reclaim little bits of your life; without guilt, without overspending, and without needing a full-time nanny or a color-coded schedule.
The Hobby That Saved My Sanity
I never thought of myself as a “hobby person.” Hobbies always seemed like something other people had; people with spare time, spare rooms, and the ability to finish a sentence without interruption.
But last year, with the kids slightly more independent, I found odd pockets of time; twenty minutes here, half an hour there. Not enough to be productive, but too much to scroll through my phone feeling guilty.
I’d always liked the idea of sewing. My gran used to make beautiful quilts and cushions, and it looked peaceful. So I dug out a charity-shop sewing machine (£25, faint mothball smell), watched countless YouTube tutorials, and gave it a go. My first cushion cover looked like it had been attacked by a very angry cat; wonky seams, mismatched corners, even sewn inside out.
But I didn’t care. For those two hours, I wasn’t thinking about the school run, the washing, or the permanent-marker artwork on the wall. I was just creating, and it felt brilliant. Over time, I got competent, started small, and eventually fell down the quilting rabbit hole.
The fabric; oh my God, the fabric. Who knew fabric could be exciting? But when you start looking at it properly, when you’re actually planning to make something with it, it becomes this whole thing. Colors and patterns and textures and possibilities. I spent an embarrassing amount of time browsing riley blake australia collections, completely mesmerized by the fact that you could get fabric covered in tiny dinosaurs wearing bow ties, or geometric patterns that looked like something from a posh design magazine.
I made my first proper quilt for my daughter’s birthday. Took me three months of stolen hours; early mornings before everyone woke up, late evenings after bedtime, the odd weekend afternoon. It wasn’t perfect. Some of the squares were slightly wonky, and if you looked closely you could see where I’d had to unpick things and start again. But she loved it. Properly loved it, in that way kids do when they know you’ve made something specifically for them.
More importantly though, I loved making it. Those hours spent cutting and pinning and stitching weren’t wasted time or time I should have been doing something more productive. They were time I was spending on myself, doing something purely because I enjoyed it. No other reason. Just that.
The brilliant thing about sewing as a hobby is that it scales to whatever time and energy you’ve got. Some days I’ll spend two hours working on a project, really getting into the zone. Other days I’ll cut out a few squares or press some seams and call it done. It doesn’t matter. There’s no deadline, no pressure, no one judging whether I finish things or abandon them halfway through because I’ve lost interest.
And the community; I wasn’t expecting that bit. Quilters are lovely. I joined a few online groups, tentatively posted pictures of my wonky early attempts, and instead of the snark I was half-expecting, everyone was just…nice. Helpful. Encouraging. It turns out there’s this whole world of people who get excited about fat quarters and batting and whether to machine or hand quilt, and honestly, it’s rather lovely to be part of something like that.
The Treat That’s Actually Worth It
Here’s something I’ve noticed about being a parent: you spend a fortune on the kids without blinking; new school shoes, swimming lessons, that specific brand of pasta they’ll actually eat; but when it comes to spending money on yourself? Suddenly you’re doing mental gymnastics about whether you really need it, whether it’s too expensive, whether you should just make do with what you’ve got.
I’ve been trying to break that habit. Not in a reckless way; I’m not about to remortgage the house for a handbag. But in a “sometimes it’s okay to buy yourself something nice” way. The trick is knowing what’s actually going to bring you joy versus what’s just going to sit in a drawer making you feel guilty for wasting money.
For me, one of those things is good food. Not fancy food necessarily, but good food. Food that someone else has cooked, that arrives at a table I haven’t had to set, that I can eat while it’s still hot without having to jump up seventeen times to fetch things people have forgotten.
Going out for a meal used to mean kid-friendly chain restaurants where everything comes with chips and the floor is somehow always sticky. Which is fine, and we still do that, but every now and then I’ll meet a friend or my sister somewhere actually nice. Somewhere with proper napkins and a menu that doesn’t have a children’s section.
There’s this place I discovered recently, Fortuna, and it’s become my go-to for those rare occasions when I want to feel like an adult human having an adult meal. It’s not stupidly expensive; I’m not made of money; but it’s nice enough that it feels like a treat. The kind of place where the staff don’t look at you like you’re mad when you order wine at lunchtime, and the food is actually thought about rather than just assembled.
The first time I went, I felt ridiculously guilty. Like I should have spent that money on something practical, or saved it, or given it to the kids for their birthday money. But you know what? I sat there for two whole hours, had a lovely meal, chatted to my friend without being interrupted, and came home feeling like a person rather than just a parent. And that’s worth something.
It’s become a thing now; once every couple of months, I’ll book a table, invite someone who isn’t related to me or under the age of twelve, and have a proper meal out. Not a special occasion thing, just a “because I want to” thing. Revolutionary concept, that.
The thing about treats is that they’re only treats if they’re occasional. If you’re doing it every day, it just becomes normal, and then you need bigger treats to get the same feeling. But once every couple of months? That’s sustainable. That’s something I can budget for without feeling guilty. That’s something to look forward to on a Tuesday afternoon when I’m knee-deep in laundry and wondering why I ever thought having children was a good idea.
And it’s not just about the food, really. It’s about the whole experience of being in a nice environment, being served, being treated like a person whose time and comfort matter. After years of plastic high chairs and children’s menus and apologizing to nearby tables when someone inevitably spills something, it’s rather lovely to sit somewhere that’s designed for adults and just…be there. Without anyone asking if they can have a snack or needing the toilet or deciding they don’t like what they ordered after all.
The Small Luxuries That Actually Matter
I’ve developed a theory about small luxuries. They work best when they’re things you have regularly but never quite splash out on. Coffee is the obvious one; everyone bangs on about fancy coffee; but for me, it’s things like nice hand cream, decent tea, and chocolate that doesn’t taste like it’s been made from saw dust and broken dreams.
Chocolate’s a big one actually. I used to just grab whatever was on offer at the supermarket, usually something with a “family size” label that would mysteriously disappear within 24 hours despite my claims that we’d all share it. But then I had some really good chocolate at a friend’s house; proper, quality stuff; and it was like a revelation. You know when you realize you’ve been doing something wrong for ages and you can’t believe you didn’t work it out sooner? That.
The difference is that you actually taste it. You have a couple of squares and you’re satisfied, rather than mindlessly working your way through an entire bar while watching telly and then feeling a bit sick. It’s the difference between eating because you want chocolate and eating because it’s there.
I’ve become a bit of a chocolate snob, to be honest. Once you’ve had the good stuff, the cheap stuff just tastes wrong. It’s worth spending a bit more on something from somewhere like B.P. de Silva rather than settling for the same old thing from the corner shop. It sounds wanky, I know, but life’s too short for disappointing chocolate.
It’s not about being fancy; it’s about enjoying life. We rush through days, eating or drinking the quickest option. But taking a few minutes for something you genuinely enjoy is worth it.
Take tea, for example. I used to drink cheap builder’s tea, distracted and letting it go cold. Then someone gave me loose-leaf tea; made properly, in a nice cup, while still hot; and it was a revelation.
The key is making these small luxuries intentional. Good chocolate in a special tin, tea in a quiet afternoon moment, hand cream that smells lovely. Tiny things, almost free, that remind you you’re not just “mum”; you’re a person who deserves to enjoy life too.
Making It Actually Happen (The Practical Bit)
Right, so that’s all very well, but how do you actually make time for any of this when you’re already struggling to shower regularly and “leisure time” feels like a fantasy?
First: stop waiting for the perfect time. It doesn’t exist. There will always be washing to do, emails to answer, and something that needs cleaning. If you wait until everything else is done, you’ll be waiting forever. So just do the thing anyway, even if the kitchen’s a mess.
I’ve started treating my hobby time like an appointment. If I just think, “Oh, I’ll sew when I get a chance,” it never happens. But when I put “Saturday 2–4pm: sewing” in the calendar, it becomes real. Something planned, something mine.
And I’ve learned to be protective of that time. Obviously life happens, but unless it’s an emergency, I try not to let other people’s needs take over. Someone wants help during my sewing time? They can wait. Someone thinks I should be doing something more “useful”? That’s nice; still no.
The guilt took time to overcome. That constant whisper that I should be doing something more productive or spending time with the kids. But here’s the truth: I’m a better parent when I have something that’s just mine. After a couple of hours doing something I enjoy, I’m calmer, more patient, and less likely to snap. My kids benefit because they get a happier, more balanced mum.
They also need to see that parents are people too; that women don’t just exist to meet everyone else’s needs. I want my daughters to grow up knowing that being a mother doesn’t mean losing yourself. The best way to teach them that is to live it.
Money-wise, I’ve learned to build small luxuries into a modest budget. Twenty quid a month for fabric. A meal out every few months. It’s not extravagant; it’s self-respect. It’s acknowledging that I’m a human being, not just a machine keeping everyone else’s lives running.
And I’ve learned to ask for help. Not “I can’t cope,” but “Can you have the kids for a couple of hours while I do this thing?” My sister and I swap weekends. We all agree we need breaks sometimes, and there’s no guilt in that.
Start small. Don’t try to change everything at once. Pick one thing that’s yours; a quiet cup of tea, twenty minutes of reading, a walk, a hobby. Protect it.
Because you don’t need to earn your time or your joy. You just need to decide you deserve it.
The Bigger Picture
I’ve been thinking about why it feels almost radical to take time for ourselves. Saying, “I’m spending two hours on me this weekend, guilt-free,” shouldn’t feel rebellious; but it does. Because we’re all chasing impossible standards: perfect parents, thriving careers, fit bodies, spotless homes, and endless patience. It’s absurd, yet the pressure never stops.
Here’s the truth: you can’t pour from an empty cup. If you never rest or do anything just for yourself, you eventually burn out. Taking time for hobbies, little treats, and daily joys isn’t indulgent; it’s survival. You don’t have to earn it by being perfect first. You deserve care and joy simply because you exist.
Self-care isn’t selfish; it’s essential. It helps you show up better for everyone else and for yourself. So find something that makes you feel alive; gardening, reading, dancing, anything; and protect that time. Buy the nice chocolate. Light the candle. Wear the jewelry. Use the good plates.
Stop saving joy for later. There’s no finish line where you’ve “earned” it. You’re allowed to matter, right now.