Well, the holidays are officially over, and we’re back to life without visitors. As I predicted, my husband has gone crazy again. I have to admit, it’s been a stressful week. Our daughter was sick for a week, and now our little one is following in her footsteps. We’re hanging by a thread. It seems like something is going around, as my mother-in-law and her sister also fell ill on their last day here. Fever, coughing, sneezing—this season’s gift keeps on giving. Antibiotics for everyone.
It’s early morning as I write this. The house is quiet, with everyone still sleeping. Yesterday was one of those days where survival mode was my only option—though, of course, not without guilt. My husband made sure of that. Instead of cleaning and organizing, I decided to let the house be as it was —messy, chaotic, and real. I spent the morning lying with the kids, breastfeeding, and reading.
I alternated between reading my new book, a Christmas gift to myself, and reading to the kids from their own holiday presents. It felt good, almost indulgent, to prioritize stillness over perfection. I made a conscious decision to sit down more this year and read in front of the kids because I rarely do that, and I believe it’s important to model behaviors like slowing down and enjoying a good book myself.
But then came the storm.
"You’re Lazy, You’re Spoilt, You’re Like Your Mother"
My husband took an extra nap in the morning, and when he appeared, he was furious. The house was messy, and I was reading—again, the “princess” in his eyes, indulging in leisure while he carried the weight of the world. His rage simmered and spilled over into sharp, cutting words:
“You’re lazy.”
“You’re spoilt.”
“You’re just like your mother, living in filth.”
The message was clear:
I’m not entitled to be tired. Only he is. My exhaustion isn’t valid, no matter how much I’m juggling.
I’m not entitled to rest. At least not until everything is perfect—clean, organized, in its rightful place.
Can’t We Just Be in the Mess? Can’t We Just Rest?
As I watched his anger unfold, I kept myself from reacting and couldn’t help but wonder: Is he afraid the house will remain messy forever? Does he truly believe we can’t relax for just one day without the world falling apart?
The house is always in good order—I make sure of that. So why can’t I embrace the mess if I want to for half a day, or heaven forbid, an entire day? Don’t I live here too? Am I not in this marriage too?
It’s unbelievable to me how rigidly he clings to this ideal of constant order, seeing me in a position akin to a servant, expected to obey his every wish as if that’s the only thing keeping us afloat. And yet, I know exactly where it comes from.
The Martyr Narcissist
He grew up in a household where his mother, the “martyr narcissist,” never rested. She probably never napped, never complained, never showed vulnerability. She was always on, always doing, and never letting up.
And what did that get her? A lifetime of illness, in and out of hospitals. Her body bore the weight of her martyrdom, and I can’t help but think it wasn’t just from overwork, but also from the emotional toll of living with another narcissist. But, of course, they don’t agree with me on that.
The Cost of Perfection
This is what I grapple with: the cycle of unhealthy expectations and behaviors being passed down. My husband’s inability to tolerate a single messy day or see the value in rest isn’t just about him—it’s a reflection of the toxic role models he grew up with.
It’s frustrating, exhausting, and, at times, infuriating. But I refuse to let that stop me from modeling something different for my kids. Yesterday, as I read with them and for myself, I realized how important it is to show them that it’s okay to pause, to embrace a moment of chaos, and to choose presence over perfection—even in the face of shame or being shamed for it.
Choosing Humanity Over Perfection
So yes, the house was messy yesterday. And yes, I was tired and unapologetically let myself rest. That doesn’t make me a “princess.” It makes me human. I have to remind myself of this truth and resist being pulled into his game.
If there’s one lesson I want my kids to take from me, it’s this: Rest is not a luxury—it’s a necessity. And no one should ever have to fight for the right to take it.
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What are your experiences with choosing rest or prioritizing yourself in the face of judgment? Share in the comments—I’d love to hear your story.
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