After twelve years of marriage, I finally understood what true rest means.
Don’t rush to judge me—I’m not a flighty wife or someone running from her responsibilities. I’m just a woman who, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly realised a simple but life-saving truth: to be a good wife and mother, you need to rest properly—not in the kitchen with pots, not with a cloth in hand, not under the muttered complaints of a husband or the whining of children, but alone… or at least without them.
I’m Emma, 38, living in York. An ordinary woman, nothing particularly remarkable. A husband, two school-aged sons, a job in accounting. Just like everyone else. Mornings are breakfast, packing lunches, school runs, rushing to work. Evenings are dinner, laundry, homework, meaningless chatter in front of the telly. Every day, the same routine.
I’ve loved the sea since childhood—it’s like a breath of life to me. But my husband couldn’t care less about sunshine—or rather, he’s allergic. He breaks out in rashes, itches, grumbles. And the kids? Well, kids will be kids. All they want is sweets, lounging with their tablets, and whining about boredom.
This summer, something incredible happened. When my husband heard the forecast predicted a heatwave in Brighton, he said, “I’d rather stay home.” The boys turned down the trip too—they wanted summer camp with their mates. Then my friend Lily suggested:
“My aunt’s got a free flat in Bournemouth. Come with us? We’ll bring your sister Sophie—have a proper break!”
So the three of us—me, Lily, and Sophie—drove south, music blaring, laughing until we were hoarse. It felt like we’d escaped a ship sinking under the weight of routine.
Bournemouth welcomed us with sea, sun, and silence. We made a vow: no cooking, no cleaning, just watermelon, cucumbers, tomatoes, and morning jogs along the shore. We slept on cool sheets, rose early, walked barefoot in the sand. We dove into the waves, tanned until golden, laughed like schoolgirls.
Those were my ten days of freedom. No one asked for pancakes, no tantrums at the ice cream stand, no grumbling about sand in towels. Not a single “Muuum, he hit me!” or “Why vegetables again?!”
Of course, there were the usual holiday admirers—bronzed blokes with beer breath. But we made it clear: move along, gents. We weren’t there to flirt, just to breathe. All three of us love our husbands. We just needed to exhale.
I came home renewed. Tanned. Toned. And… happy. Most importantly, with a firm resolution: these ten days will happen every year. Not for flirting, not for escape. For me. So I return home not a squeezed-out lemon peel, but a woman alive.
I don’t want another holiday where only the walls change, not the workload. I won’t carry children’s suitcases, feed a husband in three sittings, or collapse exhausted by day three.
Every woman needs her own summer. Without guilt. Without fear of “what people will think.” Because believe me, no one wants a tired, bitter, worn-out wife.
So, lovelies, don’t be afraid. Take a pause. Go. Reset. Smile. Only then will you truly understand the importance of resting… from the very role of wife and mother.
Let it be your personal ritual. Your private island. Your sea—without complaints, without noisy demands. Just you, the wind, the sun, and quiet joy inside.
Remember: you can’t pour from an empty cup. Fill yours first.
