Recently, I was standing in front of the school with a few other moms, waiting for our kids. As we filled the time with polite chatter, one mom of my daughter’s classmate sighed and shyly shared that she was going to the nail salon that afternoon—though she had already rescheduled twice. Her nails had really grown out, and it almost felt awkward to ask for another appointment. Yet she felt she needed it because she felt guilty: the house was a mess, her child’s gym clothes needed washing, and last week’s missed math homework due to illness still had to be caught up. By the end of her sentence, you could hear that while she really wanted her nails to be done, she’d almost rather cancel just so she wouldn’t feel selfish.
The rest of us immediately reassured her: she should absolutely go to the nail salon—she deserves it, even more. After all, she spends the whole week running around for her family, taking care, organizing, packing, paying attention, and holding it all together. If anyone deserves self-care, it’s her. She nodded but you could tell she was still debating inside her head—as if rest was the most controversial luxury a mom could grant herself.
And as I stood there, I thought: if it’s so easy to spot when someone is too hard on themselves from the outside, why don’t we see it in ourselves? Why do we only allow ourselves to rest if we can justify it with some “useful” reason? Why do we say, “I’ll be a better mom if I’m well rested” instead of simply, “I’m just as important as anyone else in the family”?
As Moms, We Have a Special Talent for Putting Ourselves Last.
Often, we don’t even notice how everything and everyone else slowly becomes the priority—work, the kids’ needs, endless house chores, mountains of to-dos.
We sacrifice time, energy, sleep, sometimes even our physical and mental well-being. And of course, we do it all out of love.
Who wouldn’t want the best for their child? But are we really giving them what they need when we wear ourselves down?
In recent years, I’ve been thinking more about what my daughter sees. She sees me building her life, caring for her, organizing her days—but she also sees how rarely I sit down, how rarely I allow myself to do nothing. She sees that rest only fits into my life after I’ve checked off everything on my list. Which, of course, never really happens.
But I want her to recognize her own limits. To know that her body and soul aren’t endless resources, and it’s not shameful to stop and rest. I want her to have the courage to say no when someone asks too much of her. To avoid falling into the generational pattern that says a woman—especially a mom—is only good if she’s always doing, always rushing, always putting others first.
But how do I teach her all this if I don’t dare to rest myself? If I never make myself a priority, am I not just passing on the pressure coded into us that a mom always has work to do? That a mom who dares to sit down must be doing something wrong? That fatigue must be hidden and boundaries swept under the rug?
Kids learn from example—not from what we say, but from what we do.
If I want my daughter to see herself as important enough to take care of herself, I first have to learn that myself. If I want to teach her to dare to rest, I have to learn to rest too.
And this is one of the hardest parts of motherhood: allowing ourselves what we instinctively allow our kids. Accepting that our well-being isn’t selfish—it’s essential. That rest isn’t a reward, it’s a need. That our child will grow into a healthy, self-respecting adult if she sees her mom treating herself with love.
I want to pass on to my daughter that me-time isn’t a luxury. Recharging isn’t laziness. Rest isn’t weakness. But I have to learn this myself first.
