Time for Me
Natalies alarm blared at 6:30am, even though she could have slept in a bit longer. She set it not because she needed to, but because she feared missing the tiny window she gave herself to get moving. While the house was still quiet, she managed to toss a load of laundry into the washer, pack a container of buckwheat and chicken for Stephen, check that her tenyearold son, Jack, had his English homework signed, and skim the urgent emails that had piled up overnight. In the bathroom the mirror steamed up from the shower, and Natalie could see herself in fragments: a furrowed brow, lashes, a mouth line that had grown a touch tighter over the past months.
She worked as a project manager at a firm where everything was measured in deadlines and risk registers. Every minute a new chat ping popped up, and her hand automatically reached for the keyboard, even when she was standing over the kettle. Natalie knew that if she didnt reply straight away, someone would think she had gone missing and shed have to prove she was still at her desk. She was perpetually at her desk.
Jack trudged out of bed, irritable as ever. Stephen was already out the door for a construction site, dropping Jack off at school on his way if Natalie lingered. Stephen wasnt a bad husband; he simply lived in a constant mustdo mode, just like her, and when he collapsed onto the sofa in the evening his exhaustion looked like a law of nature. Natalie caught herself envying that blunt honesty: tired=lying down. Her own tiredness always demanded an explanation.
On a Monday she realised she was fortyone when a birthday reminder popped up on her calendar. She had set it herself years ago and still managed to forget. She glanced at the date, at her endless todo list, and dismissed the notification. On the tube she clung to a pole, replaying in her head the budget she needed to approve, the order to pick up from the parcel depot, a call to her mother (who would be upset if she didnt ring), and the halfhearted birthday emojis from colleagues that she dutifully replied to with a mechanical thanks.
Across town, at the local secondary school, MrsTheresa Collins began her first lesson at 8:15. At fortyeight she taught English literature, though lately she felt more like a dispatcher. The classroom buzzed with chatter, parents pinged her on WhatsApp, the deputy head sent spreadsheets that had to be filled in by evening. Theresa kept notebooks in her bag, grading essays on the bus and in the kitchen while a pot of potatoes boiled on the hob.
Her universitygoing daughter lived on her own but called almost daily, often ending the chat with requests: transfer some money, check the train timetable, help with paperwork. Saying not now was impossible for Theresa; she feared that refusing would make her a bad mother, a bad teacher, a bad person. She carried other peoples expectations like an unbreakable rulebook.
In the staff room a plate of biscuits sat there, someone having brought them for tea. Theresa grabbed one, then another, feeling irritation risenot at the biscuits, but at herself. She heard colleagues swapping weekend stories, bragging about a quick massage, and sensed a hidden rebuke in the word quick. She thought, I could be quick too, if I were more organised, if I didnt scatter myself over everyone elses demands.
At the GP surgery, Sarah Patel, fiftytwo, was a GP. By nineam the waiting room was already full. Her consulting room smelled of antiseptic and the paper dust of old charts. Patients arrived with coughs, high blood pressure, or requests for work certificates. Sarah listened, prescribed, explained, and between appointments answered the nurses questions while glancing at the computer to make sure the system hadnt frozen.
She rarely checked her own blood pressurenot because she didnt know the risks, but because she didnt want to see the numbers. When everyone elses numbers were on display all day, yours felt like an unnecessary extra worry. At home her elderly father, recovering from a stroke, lived with her for the third year. He could shuffle to the kitchen unaided but mixed up his pills, so Sarah sorted them into weekly boxes as if that could bring order to everything else.
Amy Hughes was thirtyseven and ran a homebased nail salon from her studio flat in a newbuild block, with two streetfacing windows and a mortgage to meet. She worked from dawn till dusk because every cancelled client meant a hole in the budget. She posted immaculate nail photos on Instagram, captioned available slots, and answered messages at two in the morning.
Her boyfriend, Dave, lived with her but treated the flat more like a guest room. He helped occasionallypicking up parcels or taking out the rubbishbut mostly believed Amy was her own boss, so she should sort herself out. Amy never argued; she feared a spat would turn into a fight, the fight into a breakup, and the breakup into yet another item on her evergrowing problem list. She already had enough.
What tied them together wasnt age or profession. It was the way they each shouldered life as if it would collapse the moment they let go of a single thread, and the constant chorus of contradictory voices around them.
Natalie heard those voices at work when colleagues gushed about productivity hacks and the right worklife balance. On social media she saw videos of women jogging, sipping green smoothies, preaching selflove. She watched with a weary, annoyed grin. The smile felt like another duty.
Theresa heard the same in the parents WhatsApp group, where mums bickered over afterschool clubs and tutors, and in chat with neighbours who could simultaneously call a careerwoman ambitious and laugh at housewives. Sarah heard it on the clinic floor, where patients demanded attention while complaining that doctors do nothing. Amy heard it in comment sections: How do you manage it all? and instantly, Youre probably just sitting at home.
Natalies first panic strike hit on a Wednesday on the tube. She was scrolling a message from her boss: We need to close this today or well fall behind. The train jolted to a sudden stop and her chest tightened, as if someone had squeezed her heart. Air seemed to vanish. She tried to inhale deeper, but each breath came short and sharp.
She thought she would collapse. She didnt want to collapse. Shame swelled up, as if falling meant weakness. She alighted at the next station, plonked onto a bench and pressed her palm to her chest. The world buzzed: someone on a phone, someone munching a pastry. She stared at her knees, counting breaths.
She fished a bottle of water from her bag, took a sip, and felt the pressure ease a littleslowly, not dramatically, as if her body were negotiating with her. Ten minutes later she managed to flag down a cab back to the office. In the backseat she texted her boss: Ill be an hour late, not feeling well. Her fingers trembled, and she imagined the tremor visible on the screen.
He replied: Okay. Hang in there. She read it and felt a strange emptiness. Hang in there was a familiar phrase, now sounding more like an order.
Theresas panic came as a blowup. On a Friday evening she was checking notebooks, the soup cooling on the stove, when her daughter on the phone begged for money for a mystery fee. Theresa tried to work out what the fee was while also remembering the school cleanup shed promised to organise the next day.
At that moment a parent texted: Why did my son get a C? You must explain. A hot wave rose inside her. She snapped at her daughter, Hold on, I cant now, and the girl pouted. Then Theresa opened the parents message and shot back a curt reply that bordered on rude. She hit send and instantly regretted it.
She sat staring at the screen, shame clinging to her throat. She wanted a rewind button. The message was already gone. She switched off her phone, fled to the bathroom, shut the door, and leaned against the sink. In the mirror she saw red marks on her neck.
Sarahs panic was medical but still a surprise. On a Monday, after a morning of consultations, a pounding headache and nausea struck. A nurse remarked, Sarah, you look pale. She waved it off, but an hour later she realised she couldnt brush it away.
She went to the examination room, asked to have her blood pressure taken. The cuff showed numbers that were alarmingly high. She stared at them, not thinking about herself but about the full day ahead, about her father whod have no one to feed, about angry patients if she cancelled appointments. Then she heard her own professional voice, dry as ever: I need a fit note. Asking for one felt harder than diagnosing a patient.
Amys crisis manifested as numbness in her fingers. One evening, while finishing a clients manicure, the tip of her thumb went dead. She smiled at the client, said Just a sec, and darted to the bathroom, running cold water over her hand. The numbness lingered.
She finished the job, took the payment, saw the client out, closed the door and collapsed onto the hallway floor. If my hands fail, everything fails, she thought, picturing the mortgage, the supplies, the rent, the bills. She Googled numb fingers manicure and the results warned of carpal tunnel, inflammation, surgery. Panic rose.
Dave arrived late with a grocery bag, saw Amy on the floor and asked, Whats wrong? She tried to explain, words tumbling out in fragments. Dave sat beside her, looked at her hands and said, Take a few days off. It was said plainly, without malice, but Amy heard a hint of misunderstanding. A few days off meant lost earnings, unhappy clients.
These crises werent catastrophes. No one died, no one lost a job in a day. Yet after each, the previous equilibrium felt shaky. Each woman sensed that things could not continue as before, but didnt know the next step.
That evening Natalie arrived home later than planned. Stephen had already fed Jack; a plate of cold pasta sat on the table. She slipped off her coat, sank into a chair and said, I felt ill on the tube. She tried to keep her voice steady, but it quivered.
Stephen looked at her, Heart? he asked. Natalie shrugged. She wanted him to understand it wasnt just about her heart. Stephen said, See a doctor tomorrow. Ill take Jack. His tone was practical, not patronising, and that helped more than he realised.
The next day she booked an appointment through the NHS app. The only slot was the following week, in the morning. She wanted to cancel because she had a planning meeting, but remembered the tube incident and the fear of collapsing. She emailed her boss: Ill need to step out an hour for a doctors appointment. She hit send and waited as if the office would suddenly summon her to the carpet.
He replied within a minute, Okay, let the team know. She reread it and felt a tiny relaxation inside. The world didnt get kinder, but she allowed herself a small act without justification.
Theresa, the next day, marched to the deputy heads office, clutching a printed screenshot of the angry parents message. Her palms sweated. The deputy head was strict but weary. Theresa blurted, I lost it. Im embarrassed. I cant keep up with this flood of messages. Can we set a cutoff time for replies?
The deputy sighed, Were all stretched thin. Lets try this: replies by 7pm, everything else tomorrow. Ill post it in the staff chat. Relief washed over Theresa, quickly followed by guilt, as if shed begged for a favour.
She called her daughter and said, I can help, but not instantly. I need rest too. The daughter was silent, then asked, Mum, are you okay? Theresa answered, Just tired. Saying it out loud felt scary; tiredness in her world was something to endure in silence.
Sarah got a weeklong fit note. She left the clinic with a paper and a bag of meds, feeling as though everyone was looking at her like a hypochondriac. At home her father asked, What are you doing here? She replied, Doctor said I need to rest. He muttered, Rest is for the young. She didnt argue.
She phoned the local councils adultcare service, asked about a parttime carer for a few hours a week. They explained the paperwork, the waiting list, the forms. She jotted the requirements down, irritated that everything boiled down to bureaucracy. Still, she persisted, knowing otherwise her blood pressure would become a real emergency, not just numbers.
Amy didnt cancel any clients outright the next day. She shifted two appointments to the evening, one to the following dayan act that felt catastrophic in her mind. She messaged a few regulars, Need to lighten my schedule for health reasons. Some replied with understanding, others with a curt OK. One client asked, Are you ill? Amy stared at the message, didnt answer immediately.
She found an orthopaedic surgeon online, booked a private slot because NHS waiting times were endless. She paid from the holiday savings that never materialised. The doctor talked about overuse of hands, the need for breaks, exercises, a wrist splint. The word need sounded like a threat.
At home she told Dave, I need you to pick up some of the chores. I cant do it all. Dave bristled at first. Youre home, arent you? he snapped. Amy looked him in the eye and finally said, I work from home. Its work. If I collapse, we both lose money. Dave fell silent, then said, Fine, lets split it. It wasnt a romantic epiphany, just a practical negotiation.
By midmonth each of them hit a point of no return.
Natalies came during a planning meeting where her boss offered another project, saying, Youre the best at juggling. Pride prickled her, fear followed. She imagined the tube again, the breathlessness, the inner voice shouting hang on. She said, I wont take it. Im at my limit. I can hand over the handover, but I wont lead. The room fell silent. The boss clicked his pen, asked, Are you sure? She nodded. Inside she trembled, but it was a decision, not a reflex.
Theresas breaking point was a confrontation with an angry parent who had stormed into the school after her curt reply. He shouted, demanded an apology, threatened a formal complaint. Theresa held her ground, Im willing to discuss the grade, but I wont converse in that tone. Lets involve the deputy head and set a record. He fumed, but the deputy intervened, backing her. Theresa left the office with her knees wobbling, but also with a flicker of reliefshe hadnt swallowed her pride.
Sarahs point arrived on the third day of her sick leave when a colleague begged her to pop into the clinic for an urgent report. She walked to the bus stop, felt the familiar pressure rise, and realised she was lying to herself. She called back, I cant, Im on sick leave. The colleague sighed, Got it. Sarah finally lay down, listened to her father tinkering with the teapot, and felt both guilt and an unfamiliar lightness.
Amys climax was a clients demand: I need you right now. The client threatened to go elsewhere. Amy could have said yes and burnt out again, but instead she typed, Im unavailable today. I can fit you in on Thursday. The client replied, That wont work. Amy felt the familiar tightening, but she didnt justify herself. She turned off her phone, made a simple dinner, and ate without scrolling. The warm food steadied her.
After those moments, their lives didnt become effortless, but each found a tiny, sustainable fix that rested on necessity, not inspiration.
In late October Natalie turned up at the GP for her appointment. The waiting area was stuffy, people perched on chairs, eyes glued to phones. She clutched her referral for blood tests, feeling the familiar urge to flee, to cancel, to say later. She stayed. The doctor calmly asked about stress, sleep, diet. Natalie answered more honestly than she ever had with herself. He ordered some checks and suggested a regimen that sounded almost comical in her world: more sleep, less coffee, daily walks. She didnt promise perfection, she just wrote down the next appointment.
Theresa quietly celebrated her birthday that same period, a small cake and two plates because her daughter was staying over for the evening. Her daughter arrived with flowers, whispered, Sorry about everything earlier. Theresa waved it off, but warmth blossomed inside. They sat at the kitchen table, chatted about ordinary things, and Theresa didnt glance at her phone. The deputy head posted another spreadsheet in the staff chat, but Theresa only saw it the next morning.
Sarah, a few weeks later, got a call from the councils adultcare team: they could arrange a parttime helper twice a week. It didnt solve everything; her father remained her responsibility, and the sense of duty lingered. Yet those two hours gave her a chance to pop into the chemist without rushing, to sit on a park bench and watch strangers, to simply be. She caught herself not knowing how to relax, and she was learning that it was okay to be a beginner at it.
Amy, in November, bumped up her prices a touch, fearing clients would flee. Some did, but those who stayed appreciated her work and didnt demand the impossible.In the end, they all discovered that giving themselves permission to be imperfect was the simplest, most resilient form of selfcare.
