“Rest and self-care are so important. When you take time to replenish your spirit, it allows you to serve others from the overflow. You cannot serve from an empty vessel.” ~Eleanor Brownn
My breaking point came on a Monday morning at 6 a.m.
It had been the same routine for months: up at 5 a.m., brush my teeth, put on my workout clothes, move my body, weigh myself.
On this morning, the scale’s numbers glared back, stubborn as ever. My reflection in the mirror seemed foreign—tired eyes, face still sweaty, a body that felt like a lead weight. Outside, cars hummed past, oblivious. I’d woken early to squeeze in a workout, but all I could do was sit there, shaking with anger—at my body, at the relentless grind, at losing myself… again.
That moment wasn’t just about the weight. It was the culmination of years of silent sacrifices: waking up much too early to move my body—because when else would I find the time? Cooking dinners through exhaustion, handing out store-bought fig bars while envying the “made-from-scratch” moms on social media, and collapsing into bed each night wondering, “Is this how it is now?”
The Myth of the “Selfless” Woman
For a long time, I’d absorbed a dangerous lie: that love and family meant erasing myself. My husband worked opposite shifts, leaving me racing against the clock each evening. We’d pass like ships in the night. Him heading to work as I scrubbed dishes. He envied my evenings at home, imagining cozy nights with the kids. I craved the solitude of his quiet days while the kids were in school, wishing for just one day alone in our empty house.
Society whispered that a “good” mother was a martyr. But my breaking point taught me a harder truth: selflessness isn’t sustainable.
When I snapped at my kids one night, abandoning story time and leaving them with a meditation instead, I realized my burnout wasn’t just hurting me—it was robbing my family of the calm, patient mom they deserved. The person I used to be was buried under layers of guilt and exhaustion. I wanted her back.
The First Rebellious Act
The first time I locked my bedroom door to exercise, my kids whined outside. “Mommy, why can’t we come in?” Guilt tugged at me as I turned on a workout video, letting their iPads babysit for thirty minutes. My husband supported me but would ask, “Why isn’t the scale moving faster?” I didn’t have answers—but for the first time, I’d chosen myself.
This wasn’t selfishness. It was survival.
The Three Lessons That Changed Everything
1. Being quiet is a radical act.
I began stealing slivers of silence: ten minutes of morning meditation, walks without podcasts, even turning off the car radio. In those moments, I rediscovered my own voice beneath the noise of expectations. Once, during a chaotic breakfast scramble, my six-year-old dropped a heaping spoonful of oats, spraying the counter and cabinets with the gooey mess.
Instead of snapping in frustration, I breathed deeply—a skill honed in those stolen quiet moments. I’d found my patience again. “Let’s clean it together,” I said, my calm surprising us both.
Try this: Start with five minutes of intentional quiet daily. No screens, no lists, no voices telling you how it should be done—just you and your breath. This time isn’t for silencing thoughts but sitting with them.
2. Progress isn’t linear (and that’s okay).
When my business flopped on social media, I felt exposed. Like I’d been forced to perform, not thrive.
Letting go of others’ strategies, I rebuilt quietly: phone calls instead of reels, emails instead of hashtags, intimate workshops instead of lives. It was slower, but mine. One night, my son asked why I hadn’t “gone viral yet.” I smiled. “Because I’d rather talk to you, not my camera.”
Truth: Every “failure” taught me to trust my rhythm, not the world’s noise. Do what feels supported, not forced.
3. Boundaries are love, not rejection.
My husband started cooking on his nights home, shooing me off to go to meditate or move my body—whatever I needed in the moment. The kids built “cozy corners” with pillows, learning to honor their own need for space. Now, when my son says, “I need alone time,” I don’t panic or prod—he’s mirroring what I finally allowed myself.
Action step: Name one non-negotiable this week. For me, it’s my morning movement. What will yours be?
The Ripple Effect of Choosing Myself
Quiet became my sanctuary. No voices, no demands—just soft lo-fi playlists and the hum of my breath. My business grows steadily, my workouts are kinder, and the scale? It’s just a number now. Progress isn’t a race; it’s the quiet hum of a life rebalanced.
If I could write a letter to my former self, the woman racing to do it all “the right way” while drowning in guilt for every shortcut, this is what I’d say…
A Letter to My Former Self
Dear Matalya,You’re not failing. You’re drowning in a sea of “shoulds.” Let go. The dishes can wait. The store-bought snacks are enough. And that voice saying, “You’re selfish”? It’s lying.
When you rest, the whole family breathes easier.—The Woman You’re Becoming
A Metaphor to Remember:
Self-care is like lovingly tending a garden. You don’t rush the roses—you water them, step back, and let the roots grow strong.
