June 12, 2025 Diary
It feels strange to put pen to paper about something that has been drifting through my thoughts for years. When Ellie Whitaker and I were little, our friendship was as simple as a pair of wellworn boots: honest, warm, without any pretense. After school we would race home, swap secrets, whisper dreams, and burst into laughing fits over the smallest things. As we grew older, however, one truth became unmistakable even in families that look alike on the outside, love can wear very different coats.
Our mothers could not have been more different in habit, temperament, or the way they showed care.
Jean Hargreaves, Ellies mum, seemed to exist solely for her children. She worked from dawn until dusk, rarely paused for a breath, and always put everyone else before herself. When she bought a treatsay a packet of Cadbury Dairy Milk for £2she never kept a piece; the whole bar went straight to the kids. If anyone asked for a helping hand, she would drop everything, even when she could barely stand. Her mantra was repeated like a lullaby:
The children come first. Me later. I dont need anything else.
Dorothy Whitaker, my own mother, loved us just as fiercely but in a quieter, wiser fashion. After a long day at the office in Manchester, she wouldnt sprint to the stove. Instead she would set the kettle boiling, settle by the window, and say, Give me a minute, lovesI need a moment for myself. Shed turn on the soft crackle of an old BBC radio, break a bar of chocolate in half, and gently suggest:
Lets have a cuppa. You need a mother whos calm and happy, not one whos exhausted.
For a long time I couldnt grasp this. I had been taught that true love meant a mother who vanished into selfsacrifice, that mumhood was synonymous with giving everything away.
Years have slipped by. Ellie now lives in Brighton, Im settled in Bristol, and the memories of those afternoons linger like the scent of fresh tea. It has become clear how differently our mothers lives unfolded.
Jean eventually ran out of steam. The constant pressure, the endless worry, and the belief that her life belonged to everyone else but herself left her burnt out. She found little time for rest, for pleasure, even for her own health.
Dorothy, on the other hand, learned to guard her own wellbeing. She still laughs, travels, watches sunrise over the Cotswolds, looks after her grandchildren, bakes scones, and even after turning sixty declares, I feel wonderful because Im happy, and my children feel that too. Whenever I ask her the secret, she simply replies:
A happy mum is the best gift a child can receive.
We often confuse love with depletion, assuming that caring always means after everyone else. But love also means caring for yourself. Only a rested, smiling mother can offer her children a warmth that soothes rather than scorches.
When a mum forgets herself, the world around her grows dim. When she carves out moments for tea, a quiet song, or a piece of chocolate for herself, the house fills with peace, laughter, and the aroma of comfort. It is then that the children learn the most important lesson: to love themselves, to embrace rest without shame, and to live in harmony.
So, dear diary, Ill remind myself: sip tea slowly, savor each swallow, laugh for no reason, buy an extra chocolate bar for myself, and never wait for permission to pause.
Family truly begins with a mother, and a mother begins with her own happiness.
