12October2025
Today I found myself drifting back to the days when Mabel Whitaker and Elsie Clarke were inseparable. Their friendship was the very picture of childhood honest, warm, free of pretence. After school we would race home, share secrets and dreams, and laugh until our throats ached. As the years slipped by, one truth became unmistakable: even in families that look alike on the surface, love can wear very different coats.
Mabels mother, Sarah Whitaker, lived solely for her children. She was a tireless nurse in Manchester, rarely pausing for a breath, sleeping only in fleeting moments between night shifts. When she bought a treat, it was always for the kids a tin of biscuits for £2, a packet of sweets nothing for herself. If anyone asked for a favour, she never said no, even when she was trembling on her feet. Her mantra was always the same: The children come first. Me later. I dont need anything.
Elsies mother, Margaret Clarke, ran a small bookshop in Brighton. She, too, worked hard and loved her children dearly, but her approach was quieter, wiser. When she came home, she didnt dash straight to the kettle. She would set the kettle on the stove, slip into the windowseat with a steaming mug, and say, Give me a minute, love I need a breath of my own. She turned on the soft BBC Radio, broke a bar of dark chocolate in two, and offered gently, Lets have tea together. You need a calm, happy mum, not a exhausted one.
Back then I struggled to grasp why Elsies mother took that time for herself. I had been taught that true love meant a mother would erase herself, sacrifice everything, and that selfdenial was the hallmark of motherhood. A mother is selfless, we were told from the cradle.
Years have marched on. Mabel and Elsie are now adults living in different towns Mabel in Leeds, Elsie in Oxford. Their memories linger, and with the passing of time the contrast in their mothers lives grew stark.
Sarah Whitaker, after decades of constant pressure, finally burned out. The relentless worry, the feeling that her existence belonged to everyone but herself, left her with barely a moment for rest, joy, or even her own health. She was a shadow of the vibrant woman she once was.
Margaret Clarke, on the other hand, learned to guard her own wellbeing. She still laughs, travels to the seaside when the tide is low, watches sunrise over the Cotswolds, bakes apple pies for her grandchildren, and, even after turning sixty, can be heard saying, Im well, because Im happy, and my children feel that happiness too. When asked about her secret, she simply replies, A happy mum is the best gift a child can receive.
We often confuse love with depletion, believing that caring always means putting yourself last. But love also means looking after yourself. Only a rested, smiling mother can give her children a steady warmth that soothes rather than scorches.
When a mum forgets herself, the world around her dims. When she carves out a slice of time for tea, a quiet chat, a piece of chocolate, the house fills with calm, laughter, and the scent of brewed leaves. It is then that the children learn the most vital lesson to love themselves, to embrace rest, and to live in harmony.
So, I remind myself: look after your own spirit. Sip tea slowly, savoring each draught. Laugh for no reason at all. Treat yourself to a chocolate bar, not just for the little ones. Dont wait for permission to pause.
Family starts with a mother, and a mother begins with her own happiness.
