You Know Self-Care Isn’t Selfish… So Why Does It Still Feel That Way?

This is one of those conversations that’s been quietly sitting at the edge of my mind for a while, nudging me every time I feel that familiar guilt rise up when I try to pause. I’ve gone back and forth on whether I should talk about this now, because truthfully... I’m still in it. I haven’t figured it all out yet. But maybe that’s exactly why I need to share it: because it’s real. It’s messy. And it’s alive in my body right now.

Here’s the thing: I know self-care isn’t selfish. You probably do too. We’ve read the quotes, heard the podcasts, said it to our friends. But when it’s time to actually choose ourselves (to slow down, to not do the next thing on the list, to take a moment to breathe) we hesitate. Or at least, I do. Something inside me tightens.

It’s like my nervous system hasn’t caught up with what my brain already knows.

We tell ourselves we’ll rest when the to-do list is done. When the house is in order. When things are calm. But they rarely are. And even when there is a quiet pocket of time, our bodies are so used to the pace that we can’t relax into it. We sit down... and our minds instantly scan for the next thing.

That’s what I want to talk about in this space. Not from a “five easy steps” angle, but from the middle of it. Because I know I’m not the only one holding this invisible tension… where choosing yourself feels like a fight you can’t explain.

Last Week Was A Lot

Last week completely wiped me out.

We’d just gotten back from a family trip, the kind that’s meant to be refreshing but somehow leaves everyone overstimulated and a little unhinged. The kids were off rhythm, the house was upside down, and nothing felt grounded. There were half-unpacked bags, random laundry piles, and my brain was already skipping ahead to the next trip coming up in a few days.

It was that chaotic in-between space where nothing is technically wrong, but everything feels like it could topple with one unexpected sneeze.

One of the kids had a last-minute UOI project due the next morning… discovered, of course, at 8:30pm while I was trying to order a glue gun online. The other had just come back from a birthday party fully charged with sugar and sensory overload. I was at the kitchen table juggling tabs… Amazon cart open, a newsletter half-written, and mentally prepping for a client session later that evening.

My mind was loud. I was thinking about t-shirt orders for the trip. Wondering when I’d get my roots done. Mentally checking if I’d double-booked Friday morning. Debating whether I should post on Stories to stay visible.

And in the middle of all that, I thought… maybe I could just take ten minutes. Just a quick pause. A breath. A reset.

So I made a cup of tea. Sat down on the couch. Even exhaled.

But within seconds... this wave of guilt washed over me. Like I was doing something wrong by sitting down. My body actually rejected the rest. My brain immediately flipped open the tabs of everything I hadn’t done… the unread emails, the open WhatsApp threads, the dentist appointments I still hadn’t booked.

I didn’t even sip the tea.

I stood up and went right back into doing.

And the part that stung? It didn’t feel unusual. It felt normal. Expected.

Like of course I couldn’t rest… not yet.

And I know I’m not alone in this. So many mums I talk to carry this same low-grade hum of tension… like rest is a luxury we have to earn. Like unless everything is done and dusted, we don’t have permission to pause.

But the truth is... it’s never all done.

There’s always another lunchbox to prep. Another birthday RSVP to respond to. Another form to sign. Another mental tab open.

This is what burnout can look like when you're high-functioning. When you're checking all the boxes but slowly disappearing from yourself. When you sit down to rest and your body doesn’t know how to receive it.

I’m starting to see that this isn’t just about having a lot on my plate.

It’s about the belief underneath… that if I stop, something will fall apart.

That’s the part I want to name here. Because I think naming it is the first small way we start to loosen its grip.

What’s Really Going On Beneath the Guilt?

Here’s what I’ve been noticing… underneath all the to-dos and calendar chaos, there’s something deeper driving the struggle.

It’s not just that there’s too much to do (though, let’s be honest, there is). It’s that I don’t fully trust what will happen if I stop.

Like… if I put something down, who’s going to pick it up?

If I don’t remember every little thing… if I don’t send the reminder email, or prep the backpack, or reply to the group chat… what will fall apart?

There’s this quiet, unspoken fear that rests on so many mothers’ shoulders: If I pause, everything will collapse. And I’ll be the one left cleaning it up.

Even on calm days, that fear lingers. The surface might look still (kids content, house mostly in order) but my nervous system doesn’t believe it’s safe to slow down. There’s this underlying buzz, like I have to stay on just in case.

Because what if I miss something?

What if someone gets upset?

What if I fall behind and can’t catch up?

And when you’ve carried that energy for years (when being hyper-aware, ultra-prepared, and “on top of it” becomes part of your identity) it’s hard to trust the pause. Hard to believe that you’re still worthy even when you’re not producing, solving, or managing.

That’s what this feels like, more than anything: a worth thing.

Like I’m only allowed to rest when I’ve earned it. Like stillness has to be justified.

I’m realising now how deeply wired this is. Not just in me, but in so many of us.

We’ve been raised in a culture that glorifies productivity and praises selflessness to the point of invisibility. Especially for mums. Especially for women. We’re taught to measure ourselves by how much we can carry without breaking.

But that comes at a cost.

And the cost is us.

Our capacity to be present. To feel joy. To actually live inside our own lives instead of constantly managing them from the sidelines.

I’ve been trying, lately, to notice these moments. The tiny split seconds where I feel myself revving up, even when nothing urgent is happening. The way my breath gets shallow. The way I reach for my phone out of habit. The way my shoulders inch up toward my ears without me even realising.

I don’t try to force myself into relaxation anymore. That just adds pressure to something that’s supposed to be soft. But I am learning to stay with the discomfort. To sit with that twitchy, restless feeling without immediately reacting to it.

Because that pause? That’s where something shifts.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

But just enough to remember: I don’t have to earn rest by running myself ragged.

Stillness isn’t selfish. It’s a return.

The Tiny Practice That’s Helping Me Come Back to Myself

I wish I could tell you I found the perfect morning routine or finally found a guided meditation that fixed everything.

But the truth is, the only thing that’s really helped lately is something so small, it almost feels silly to mention.

When I feel that buzzy, restless energy (the kind that makes my chest tighten and my brain jump from task to task) I pause.

Just for a moment.

I put my hand on my chest. Even that sometimes feels awkward or performative. But I do it anyway. Not because it’s part of a “routine,” but because it brings me back into my body.

And then I take one breath.

That’s it.

Some days I ask myself, “What do I need right now?” And sometimes, the answer comes easily. You need to close the laptop. You need five minutes in the sun. You need to stop trying to answer three people at once.

Other times, the answer is quieter. A whisper. Or nothing at all. Just the exhale.

But even when there’s no clear answer, the breath is enough. That moment of presence plugs me back in… like I’ve just slid one battery back into place.

It doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t magically melt away the overwhelm. But it shifts something.

It reminds me I’m allowed to pause before I hit the wall. That care doesn’t have to be earned through exhaustion. That I can respond to myself with softness instead of shame.

And honestly? That’s been enough. Most days, it’s more than enough.

Because this season of life isn’t asking me to master another habit or optimise my time.

It’s asking me to remember myself.

And this tiny practice (one breath, one hand to my chest, one honest question) has become a lifeline. Not because it changes my circumstances, but because it changes how I meet them.

Gently. Honestly. Present.

A New Way to Think About Rest

At the heart of it, this conversation isn’t just about rest.

It’s about permission.

Permission to not be performing all the time.
Permission to stop waiting until everything is handled, everyone is happy, and every box is ticked before you care for yourself.

Because here’s the truth that’s taken me years to even begin to believe:
You don’t have to earn your rest.

Stillness isn’t something you unlock at the end of a perfectly productive day.
It’s something you’re worthy of now.
Even when the laundry isn’t folded.
Even when the to-do list is still long.
Even when your inbox has red dots.

That’s what I’m sitting with lately.

And I’m not trying to perfect this or do it “right.”
I’m just learning to notice the signs sooner… the tightness in my tone when I’m not actually angry, just tired.
The way I check my phone a dozen times in five minutes because my brain is too overstimulated to settle.
The way I can be in the room but totally disconnected from myself.

In those moments, I don’t need a reset plan or a full day off.

I just need to come back.

One breath. One pause. One honest check-in.

That’s the invitation I’m offering you too.
Not a new routine. Not a pressure to “rest better.”
But a whisper: You matter, even in the mess.
You deserve to feel like you exist, even if nothing gets crossed off today.

And maybe this week, that’s the only practice we need… to pause before we crash.
To stop waiting for a breakdown to justify rest.

Because you’re allowed to care for yourself before you hit the wall.

You’re allowed to choose yourself… gently, quietly, without apology.

You’re allowed to say: I’m here. And I matter too.