After 12 Years of Marriage, I Finally Discovered What True Relaxation Means
Don’t rush to label me—I’m neither a flighty wife nor shirking my family duties. I’m just a woman who, after twelve years of marriage, had an epiphany: to be a good wife and mother, you must know how to truly relax—not in the kitchen with pots and pans, not with a cloth in your hand, not under the constant complaints of a husband and the whims of children, but alone… or at least without them.
I’m Mary, 38 years old, living in Manchester. A regular woman, nothing particularly noteworthy. A husband, two school-aged sons, a job in accounting—everything like everyone else. Mornings with breakfast, getting the kids ready, dropping them at school, racing to work, and in the evening—dinner, laundry, homework, and futile conversations in front of the TV. Every day is a carbon copy of the last.
I’ve loved the sea since childhood; it’s my breath of life. But my husband is indifferent to the sun, or rather, he’s allergic. He breaks out, itches, and grumbles. And the kids… well, they’re kids. They just want to munch sweets, dive into their tablets, and complain about being bored.
This summer, something incredible happened. My husband, learning that the heat in Brighton was going to be above normal, said, “I’d rather stay home.” The boys also declined to come—they wanted to attend a summer camp with classmates. That’s when my friend Jane proposed:
“My aunt has a free apartment in Cornwall. Want to come with us? We’ll take your sister Sue—let’s have fun!”
And so, the three of us—Jane, Sue, and I—zoomed down the motorway heading south. The car was filled with music, laughter, and conversation until we were hoarse. It felt like we were escaping from a ship sinking under the weight of daily life.
In Cornwall, we were greeted by the sea, warmth, and tranquility. We made a vow: no cooking, no cleaning, only watermelons, cucumbers, tomatoes, and morning beach runs. We slept on cool sheets, got up early, and walked barefoot on the sand. We dove into salty waves, tanned to a crisp, and laughed like we were young girls again.
These were my ten days of freedom. No one asked me to make pancakes, caused scenes at the ice cream stand, or grumbled about sand in the towel. Not a single “Muuum, he hit me!” or “Why vegetables again?!”
Of course, there were “admirers”—typical holiday types with tans and too much cologne. But we quickly made it clear: move along, gentlemen. We’re not here for flirting; we’re here to rest. All three of us are married, love our husbands. We just needed a breather.
I came back home renewed. Tanned. Fit. And… happy. More importantly, with a firm decision: I’ll have these ten days every year. Not for flirting, not to run away, but for myself. To return home not as a squeezed lemon peel, but as a lively woman.
I no longer want holidays where the only thing that changes are the walls, not the obligations. I don’t want to lug kids’ suitcases, feed my husband three times a day, and collapse by day three.
Every woman needs her personal summer. Without guilt. Without fear of what others will think. Because, believe me, no one needs a tired, grumpy, overworked wife.
So, my dear ladies, don’t be afraid. Take a break. Go away. Recharge. Smile. Only then will you truly understand the importance of relaxing… away from the role of wife and mom.
Let it be your personal ritual. Your personal island. Your sea—without blame, without noisy demands. Just you, the breeze, the sun, and quiet happiness inside.
