After 12 years of marriage, I finally understood what a real holiday means
Please, don’t label me as thoughtless or a runaway from family responsibilities. I’m just a woman who, after twelve years of marriage, realized a simple but comforting truth: to be a good wife and mother, it’s important to know how to truly relax—not in the kitchen with pots and pans, not with a cloth in hand, not amid a barrage of husband’s complaints and children’s whims, but alone… or at least without them.
I’m Sarah, 38, living in Nottingham. Just an ordinary woman, nothing particularly noteworthy. I have a husband, two school-aged sons, and a job in accounting. It’s all very routine. Mornings consist of breakfast, getting everyone ready, school drop-offs, rushing to work. Evenings are filled with dinner, laundry, homework, and pointless conversations in front of the TV. Every day feels like a repeat of the last.
Since I was a child, the seaside has been my source of rejuvenation. Yet, my husband is indifferent to the sun—in fact, he’s allergic. His skin breaks out in rashes, he scratches, complains. And the kids… well, they’re kids. All they care about is eating sweets, glued to tablets, whining about being bored.
This summer, something unbelievable happened. Hearing that the heat in Brighton would be higher than usual, my husband declared, “I’d rather stay home.” The boys decided against the trip too—they wanted to attend a summer camp with their classmates. That’s when my friend Emma suggested:
— My aunt has a free apartment in Cornwall. Shall we go together? We can bring your sister Lily too—let’s have some fun!
And so, the three of us—Emma, Lily, and I—sped down the road towards the south. The car was filled with music, laughter, and conversation that went on until we were hoarse. It felt like we had escaped the sinking ship of everyday life.
Cornwall greeted us with sun, warmth, and tranquility. We made a vow: no cooking, no cleaning, just feasting on watermelons, cucumbers, tomatoes, and jogging on the morning beach. We slept on cool sheets, woke up early, and walked barefoot on the sand. We splashed in the salty waves, tanned to our hearts’ content, and laughed like teenagers.
Those were my ten days of freedom. No one asked for pancakes to be made, no drama at the ice cream vendor, no grumbling about sand in the towel. Not a single “Mum, he hit me!” or “Why vegetables again?”
Of course, there were “admirers”—resort types with tans and booze on their breath. But we made it clear: not interested, gentlemen. We weren’t there to hunt, just to relax. All three of us married, loving our husbands. We just needed a break.
I returned home renewed. Sun-kissed. Slimmer. And… happy. Most importantly, with a firm decision: I’ll have these 10 days every year. Not for flirting, not running away. But for myself. To come back home not as a squeezed-out lemon peel, but as a vibrant woman.
I no longer want a holiday where only the walls change, but not the chores. I don’t want to lug kids’ suitcases, feed my husband three times a day, and collapse with exhaustion by day three.
Every woman deserves her own personal summer. Without guilt. Without the fear of “what will they think.” Because, believe me, no one needs a tired, angry, worn-out wife.
So, dear ladies, don’t be afraid. Take a break. Go away. Recharge. Smile. Only then will you truly understand how crucial it is to have a rest… from the very role of being a wife and mum.
Let it be your personal ritual. Your private island. Your sea—without reproach, without noisy demands. Just you, the breeze, the sun, and quiet happiness inside.
