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Here’s my confession - I find it almost impossible to lie down in the afternoon.
Even when I’m bone tired. Even when I’ve worked since dawn. Even when, if I’m honest, nobody actually needs me.
There’s this little voice that says, you haven’t done enough yet. Wait until this evening. Earn it.
Maybe you know that voice too. It sounds responsible. Productive. Moral. But it’s not kind.
I work with hundreds of girls, especially aged 10 to 12, and they still understand pleasure instinctively. They flop on the floor. They laugh loudly. They eat when they’re hungry. They stretch like cats in the sun.
And then adolescence creeps in and they begin apologising - for taking up space, for wanting more, for resting.
If I’m really honest, we’ve modelled that. We model tired-but-carrying-on. We model pushing through. We model martyrdom as competence.
I remember collapsing onto the sofa one evening saying, “I’m exhausted.” And my daughter simply asked, “Then why don’t you just rest?” Instead of answering her suggestion gratefully, I listed everything I had to do. Dinner. Emails. Laundry. She hadn’t accused me of anything. She just couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t take care of myself.
Such a simple question. Why don’t we? Somewhere along the line we decided rest is a reward. Something you get when everything else is done. But everything else is never done. Parenting doesn’t finish. Emails don’t end. The washing multiplies. So if rest is a reward, we never receive it.
What if rest is maintenance? What if pleasure is regulation? What if joy is medicine?Not indulgence. Not laziness. Not weakness.
This week, I’m noticing the moment I override my body. And instead of pushing through, I’m experimenting with pausing - even just for one breath. Not dramatically. Just enough to remind myself that I matter too.
We don’t need to lecture our daughters about self-care.
We just need to let them see us practise it.
Thank you for pausing with me. Take care.
By with Kim McCabe (because a pause is not a luxury)Here’s my confession - I find it almost impossible to lie down in the afternoon.
Even when I’m bone tired. Even when I’ve worked since dawn. Even when, if I’m honest, nobody actually needs me.
There’s this little voice that says, you haven’t done enough yet. Wait until this evening. Earn it.
Maybe you know that voice too. It sounds responsible. Productive. Moral. But it’s not kind.
I work with hundreds of girls, especially aged 10 to 12, and they still understand pleasure instinctively. They flop on the floor. They laugh loudly. They eat when they’re hungry. They stretch like cats in the sun.
And then adolescence creeps in and they begin apologising - for taking up space, for wanting more, for resting.
If I’m really honest, we’ve modelled that. We model tired-but-carrying-on. We model pushing through. We model martyrdom as competence.
I remember collapsing onto the sofa one evening saying, “I’m exhausted.” And my daughter simply asked, “Then why don’t you just rest?” Instead of answering her suggestion gratefully, I listed everything I had to do. Dinner. Emails. Laundry. She hadn’t accused me of anything. She just couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t take care of myself.
Such a simple question. Why don’t we? Somewhere along the line we decided rest is a reward. Something you get when everything else is done. But everything else is never done. Parenting doesn’t finish. Emails don’t end. The washing multiplies. So if rest is a reward, we never receive it.
What if rest is maintenance? What if pleasure is regulation? What if joy is medicine?Not indulgence. Not laziness. Not weakness.
This week, I’m noticing the moment I override my body. And instead of pushing through, I’m experimenting with pausing - even just for one breath. Not dramatically. Just enough to remind myself that I matter too.
We don’t need to lecture our daughters about self-care.
We just need to let them see us practise it.
Thank you for pausing with me. Take care.