After twelve years of marriage, I finally understood what it means to truly rest.
Don’t rush to label me—I’m not some flighty wife, nor am I running from my duties. I’m simply a woman who, after over a decade of marriage, realised a simple but life-saving truth: to be a good wife and mother, you must learn to rest properly. Not over a sink full of dishes, not with a dust rag in hand, not to the sound of my husband’s grumbling or my children’s whining—but alone with myself… or, at the very least, without them.
My name is Emily, I’m 38, and I live in Manchester. An average woman, nothing particularly remarkable. A husband, two school-age sons, a job in accounting. The usual. Mornings meant breakfast, packing lunches, school runs, rushing to work. Evenings were dinner, laundry, homework, mindless chatter in front of the telly. Every day, the same script.
I’ve always loved the sea—it’s like a breath of life to me. But my husband couldn’t care less about the sun. Worse, he’s allergic to it—breaks out in rashes, itches, complains. And the kids? Well, they’d rather stuff themselves with sweets, lounge about with their tablets, and whine about boredom.
This summer, the impossible happened. When my husband heard the forecast predicted a scorching heatwave in Brighton, he shrugged and said, “I’d rather stay home.” The boys bailed too—opted for summer camp with their mates. Then my friend Hannah pitched an idea:
“My aunt’s got a flat free in Bournemouth. Fancy joining us? We’ll bring your sister Lily—make a proper girls’ trip!”
And just like that, the three of us—me, Hannah, and Lily—were speeding down the motorway, music blasting, laughing until our throats hurt. It felt like we’d escaped a sinking ship—the kind slowly drowning in daily drudgery.
Bournemouth greeted us with golden sand, blazing sun, and sweet silence. We made a pact: no cooking, no cleaning—just watermelon, crisp salads, and barefoot morning jogs along the shore. We slept on cool sheets, woke at dawn, and let the saltwater waves wash over us. We tanned until our skin glowed, laughed like schoolgirls, and forgot the world beyond the beach.
Those ten days were my taste of freedom. No demands for pancakes, no tantrums over ice cream, no whinging about sand in the towels. Not a single “Muuuum, he hit me!” or “Why are we eating vegetables again?”
Sure, there were the usual beachside Romeos—sunburnt, beer-breathed, looking for trouble. But we shut that down fast. We weren’t there to flirt. We were there to breathe. All three of us loved our husbands, missed them even—but this? This was just for us.
I came home different. Tanned. Lean. And, for the first time in years—happy. More than that, I returned with a promise to myself: these ten days would happen every year. Not for an affair, not to run away. But for me. So I wouldn’t crawl back home like a crumpled husk, but as a woman who still knew how to feel alive.
I refuse to waste another holiday swapping four walls for a different set of chores. I won’t lug suitcases for the kids, cook three separate meals for my husband, or collapse exhausted by day three.
Every woman deserves her own private summer. Without guilt. Without worrying what others will say. Because, trust me, nobody wants a wife who’s exhausted, resentful, and worn to the bone.
So, ladies, don’t be afraid. Hit pause. Go. Reset. Smile. And only then will you truly understand the power of rest—not just from work, but from the very roles that define you.
Let it be your ritual. Your secret island. Your slice of sea—no complaints, no demands. Just you, the wind, the sun, and the quiet joy humming in your chest.