You know that moment when you finally sit down after the kids are in bed, and instead of doing something for yourself, you’re scrolling through parenting articles trying to figure out how to be better at this whole thing?
I used to do that constantly. After Ellie was born, I devoured every parenting book I could get my hands during her nap times: attachment theory, gentle discipline, child development stages. And don’t get me wrong, some of that knowledge has been incredibly valuable.
But here’s what I’ve learned over five years of motherhood: the things that have actually made me a more patient, present, and grounded parent aren’t found in any parenting manual. They’re the “selfish” things I do just for me: the hobbies and practices that fill my own cup so I have something left to pour into my kids.
Let me share the ones that have genuinely changed how I show up for Ellie and Milo.
1) Gardening (even just a few herbs on the windowsill)
There’s something deeply grounding about putting your hands in soil. When Milo was going through a particularly challenging phase at 18 months (the kind where nothing I did seemed right), I started spending early mornings in our backyard garden before anyone woke up.
Those quiet moments with dirt under my fingernails taught me patience in a way no book could. Plants don’t grow faster because you hover over them anxiously. They need consistent care, yes, but also space and time to do their thing.
Sound familiar?
I started noticing how I was applying the same frantic energy to parenting that I’d bring to a wilting tomato plant: overwatering, obsessively checking, trying to force growth. The garden taught me to trust the process, to provide what’s needed and then step back.
Now I keep herbs growing on our kitchen windowsill year-round, and even that small practice helps me reset when I’m feeling overwhelmed. Plus, Ellie loves helping me water them, and it’s become this sweet connection point for us.
2) Any form of regular movement that you actually enjoy
I’m not talking about punishing workouts or forcing yourself to the gym. I mean finding movement that genuinely feels good in your body.
For me, it’s gentle morning stretches before the kids wake up and occasional hikes with Matt on weekends when my parents watch the kids. Nothing intense, just enough to remind me that I exist in a physical body beyond being touched-out from breastfeeding and constant “Mommy, hold me!”
Movement helps me process the stress I carry in my shoulders and jaw. It clears the mental fog that comes from interrupted sleep and endless decisions about snacks and screen time. When I’ve moved my body, even for fifteen minutes, I’m exponentially more patient with Milo’s refusal to wear pants and Ellie’s endless questions about everything.
The key is finding something you’ll actually do, not what you think you should do. Hate running? Don’t run. Love dancing in your kitchen? Do that instead.
3) Creating art with zero pressure or outcome in mind
I keep what I call a “collage table” in our art corner: just a low table with magazines, scissors, glue sticks, and random materials I’ve collected. Sometimes when the kids are occupied, I’ll sit down and just make something with no plan whatsoever.
This practice of creating without needing it to be good or useful or Instagram-worthy has been revolutionary for my perfectionist tendencies. I didn’t even realize how much I needed that outlet until I gave myself permission to have one.
Now when Ellie dumps an entire container of beads on the floor or Milo “helps” by scribbling on my grocery list, I can laugh instead of immediately tensing up. Creating art for no reason taught me to embrace mess and imperfection, skills that happen to be essential in parenting.
4) Reading fiction (not parenting books)
I spent years only reading parenting books and non-fiction about child development. Then one night, exhausted after Matt did bedtime, I picked up a novel from the library sale just to escape for twenty minutes.
Those twenty minutes expanded into a nightly ritual that I now protect fiercely. Getting lost in someone else’s story, in a completely different world, gives my brain a break from the constant analysis of whether I’m doing this parenting thing right.
Fiction exercises your empathy muscles in ways that feel effortless and enjoyable. It reminds you that there are infinite ways to be human, infinite ways to solve problems, infinite perspectives beyond your own immediate experience.
When I’m regularly reading fiction, I notice I’m more curious about what’s going on in my kids’ inner worlds rather than just trying to manage their behavior. I ask more questions. I imagine more possibilities for why they might be acting a certain way.
Plus, Ellie sees me reading and now asks for “reading time” herself, surrounded by the children’s books I collect from library sales. Modeling the joy of reading might be the best literacy education I can give her.
5) Cooking or baking something just because you want to
Yes, I meal plan and cook dinner every night. That’s a necessity, not a hobby. But twice a week, I make sourdough bread, and that’s different. It’s not because we need bread (though we eat it). It’s because I love the ritual of it.
The slow process of feeding the starter, mixing the dough, waiting for it to rise: it’s meditative. There’s no rushing fermentation. You can’t microwave your way through proofing. It operates on its own timeline, which is a helpful reminder when I’m trying to rush Milo through getting dressed.
And when I pull a loaf from the oven with that perfect crackly crust? That’s pure satisfaction that has nothing to do with how many vegetables my kids ate or whether I lost my temper that afternoon.
Matt always jokes that I’m happiest when I’m elbow-deep in dough, and he’s not wrong. Having something I can control, shape, and see tangible results from feeds a part of me that parenting (with its long feedback loops and uncertain outcomes) simply can’t.
6) Spending time in nature without the kids
I know, I know. This sounds impossible. But hear me out.
Once a month, I take a solo walk in the woods near our house while Matt watches the kids on Saturday morning. Just forty-five minutes, but those forty-five minutes do more for my mental health than almost anything else.
Nature doesn’t need me to be anything. The trees don’t care if I’m a good mom or if I handled that tantrum well. The creek keeps flowing whether I remembered to schedule the dentist appointment or not.
This is different from family nature time, which I also love: showing Ellie different leaves, helping Milo find sticks, answering approximately eight thousand questions. Solo time in nature is about letting my nervous system actually settle without being responsible for anyone else’s safety or experience.
I come back softer somehow. More able to meet my kids where they are instead of where I wish they’d be.
7) Pursuing a skill that has nothing to do with being a parent
I’m learning to sew. Not just mending buttons. I’m talking about actually making simple clothes and reducing our waste. I’m terrible at it, by the way. My first attempt at a shirt for Ellie looked like something a drunk person made in the dark.
But that’s exactly why it’s so valuable. Being deliberately bad at something new reminds me what it’s like to be a beginner, to struggle, to need help. It makes me infinitely more patient when Ellie can’t get her shoes on the right feet for the hundredth time or when Milo gets frustrated building his block tower.
Struggling with something myself keeps that empathy muscle active. It prevents me from becoming the rigid expert who forgot what learning feels like.
Plus, having an identity beyond “mom” matters. I’m still me: someone who’s curious, who’s learning, who has interests that have nothing to do with child-rearing. My kids benefit from seeing that modeled.
8) Maintaining friendships that aren’t centered on parenting
Some of my closest friends are other moms, and those relationships are precious, especially the ones from our babysitting co-op who understand exactly why I’m texting at 5:47 AM. But I also intentionally maintain friendships with my former teaching colleagues, some of whom don’t have kids.
These conversations where we talk about books, ideas, current events, our creative projects (where I’m not primarily relating to someone as a fellow parent) feed a part of my identity that needs nourishment.
When I’m only talking about nap schedules and potty training, I start to feel like I’m disappearing. Those non-parent-centered friendships remind me that I contain multitudes. They challenge my thinking and introduce me to perspectives I wouldn’t encounter in my daily parenting bubble.
And honestly? Taking a break from talking about kids makes me more present when I am with my kids. Everything benefits from some space and perspective.
9) Practicing something creative with no audience in mind
I keep a journal that no one will ever read. Not a gratitude journal or a parenting reflection journal: just a place where I write whatever comes out, messy and unfiltered and sometimes completely nonsensical.
This practice of creating something (words, in this case) with absolutely no audience has been unexpectedly liberating. I’m not performing motherhood. I’m not crafting a narrative about how I’m handling things. I’m just being, on paper.
I recently read Rudá Iandê’s book “Laughing in the Face of Chaos,” and it really shifted something for me around this idea of wholeness versus perfection. His insights about letting go of the need to be perfect really resonated with how this journal practice has freed me to just be real.
Writing without an audience taught me to trust my own inner voice again, the one that got drowned out by all the expert advice and Instagram highlight reels. And that voice? It’s actually pretty wise about what my specific kids need, even when it contradicts what the books say.
Conclusion
Here’s what I want you to hear: taking time for yourself isn’t selfish. It’s not stealing from your kids. It’s not evidence that you’re not dedicated enough or present enough or grateful enough for this gift of motherhood.
The truth is, I’m a better mom when I’m also still fully myself: when I’m tending to the parts of me that exist beyond wiping noses and mediating sibling conflicts and making sure everyone’s wearing weather-appropriate clothing.
You don’t have to adopt all of these hobbies. Maybe none of them resonate with you, and that’s completely fine. The point isn’t what you do. It’s that you do something that reminds you that you’re a whole person with needs and interests and an inner life that matters.
Our kids don’t need perfect parents who’ve read every parenting book and implemented every strategy. They need parents who are reasonably okay, who have some reservoir of patience and presence to draw from. And you can’t pour from an empty cup, as the saying goes.
So go ahead. Be “selfish.” Your kids will benefit more from you pursuing that hobby that lights you up than from you reading another chapter about positive discipline techniques while resenting every minute of it.
Trust me on this one.
