The Art of Letting Go (Just a Little): Learning to Breathe Without the Mom Guilt

(Because even superheroes need a nap—and moms? Especially so.)

When I Used to Be “On” All the Time

After my separation, I went into full mom survival mode. Abigail was three, I was pregnant with Samuel, and I was determined to prove—to myself, to the world, to the guilt whispering in my ear—that I could give my kids everything they needed, even if their family didn’t look like I once dreamed it would.

I moved back in with my parents (God bless them forever). They became my backup team, always ready to scoop a baby or stir a pot of rice while I ran on fumes and determination. But even with their help, I didn’t rest. I couldn’t. I felt like the second I wasn’t “on,” I was somehow failing them.

If my kids were in the living room, I was in the living room.

If they were outside, I was outside.

If they were building towers, I was handing them blocks.

I was everywhere they were—and if they were awake, so was I.

At the time, I told myself it was love. But looking back? It was love… tangled up with guilt, fear, and the quiet ache of trying to make up for something I didn’t break alone.

The House That Guilt Built

When Samuel turned one and the divorce was finalized, I bought my own house. It felt like the beginning of something holy. Just me and my babies—our little trio against the world.

We had a yard. A trampoline. A swing set. A whole kingdom of childhood right outside our back door. And yet, I still hovered like a security drone. Even though the backyard was fully fenced and visible from the kitchen, I didn’t let them go out unless I was out there too.

If they were on the trampoline, I was sitting nearby “just in case.”

If they were watching a show, I was sitting next to them, pretending to scroll but really just keeping watch.

I didn’t take naps. I didn’t read a book in my own room. I didn’t exist outside of their immediate orbit.

It wasn’t because I didn’t trust them—it was because I didn’t trust myself to be away. I felt like stepping out of the room meant stepping out of motherhood, and I’d already felt like I’d failed once by not keeping a marriage together.

So I doubled down. I became a full-time mom, part-time woman, and zero-time human being.

The Talk That Changed Everything

Then one day, my cousin Paola said the most offensive, freeing thing anyone had ever said to me:

“Why do you think you have to be in the same room as them all the time?”

Excuse me?

We were talking about how the kids always wanted to play outside while I was trying to do dishes or finish up work from home. I told her, “I can’t just let them go in the backyard by themselves.”

She asked, “Why not?”

I said, “Because that feels wrong.”

She laughed and said, “Rochelly, your backyard is fenced. You can see them through the kitchen window. You can hear them. You’re supervising—you’re just not suffering in direct sunlight.”

I didn’t know whether to hug her or block her.

But she was right. The guilt had made me believe that “being a good mom” meant constant proximity—that I had to physically hover over every moment or risk losing my motherhood badge.

The First Time I Let Go

So, I tried it.

One afternoon, after work and dinner, I told the kids, “Mommy’s tired. I’m going to my room for 30 minutes. I’ll set an alarm. You can play or watch your iPads, but you can come get me if you need me.”

And then I did it.

I went into my room.

Closed the door.

Put the blanket over my head.

And just breathed.

At first, it felt wrong—like I was skipping school. But then something magical happened: nothing.

No one got hurt.

No one burned down the house.

No one lost a limb or cried out “MOMMMMMM” like the world was ending.

They were fine.

When my alarm went off, I walked back out and realized that in those 30 minutes, I had recharged enough to be kind again. To laugh again. To say yes again.

It was such a small act, but it felt revolutionary.

Giving the Kids (and Myself) Space

Now, I do this regularly. Not every day, but often enough that it feels normal. Sometimes it’s 20 minutes, sometimes an hour. The kids know: Mom’s in her room, but she’s here.

They come in sometimes, sure—“Mommy, I need a snack!” or “Abbie won’t share!”—but the energy has shifted. I don’t feel guilty about taking that pause anymore.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: kids don’t just need our presence. They need our peace.

And sometimes peace comes from stepping away.

It’s also teaching them independence. They play in the backyard without me hovering. They problem-solve. They use their imagination. They’ve even started making their own little snack plates when I’m resting (which… sometimes looks like a yogurt massacre, but it’s fine).

And I’ve started learning to let them go a little—like when we go on walks and they ride their scooters ahead. I can still see them. They’re fine. I don’t have to be glued to their elbows to keep them safe.

It’s Okay to Not Be “On”

Somewhere along the way, I equated being a “good mom” with being a constantly present mom.

But those aren’t the same thing.

You can be a loving mom and still crave silence.

You can adore your kids and still need to shut the door.

You can be grateful for your blessings and still want five minutes where no one touches you.

That doesn’t make you ungrateful or lazy—it makes you human.

If anything, it models for our kids what healthy boundaries look like. It shows them that love and space can exist together, that taking time to rest doesn’t mean taking love away.

The Power of a Closed Door

Now, when I tell my kids, “Mommy’s going to her room,” they don’t panic. They know I’ll come back—probably happier and less likely to snap.

I’m not disappearing from their world. I’m just pressing pause.

Sometimes I’ll read. Sometimes I nap. Sometimes I literally just scroll in silence. (Do not underestimate the healing power of a scroll in peace.)

And I’ve stopped apologizing for it.

Because what I’ve realized is this: my kids deserve a mom who doesn’t resent her own exhaustion. And the only way to do that is to give myself permission to rest, even while they’re in the next room laughing, jumping, or screaming over who gets the blue cup.

To the Moms Who Feel Like They Have to Be Everywhere

If you’re reading this while your kids are climbing you like a jungle gym, hear me:

You don’t have to be everywhere at once.

You can love your kids deeply without being within three feet of them 24/7.

Let them play. Let them be loud. Let them be bored. You can supervise from the window. You can fold laundry or sit in your car for an extra minute before coming inside. You can even—gasp—take a nap.

That doesn’t make you neglectful. It makes you balanced.

Final Thoughts: Breathing Room Is Love Too

For so long, I thought love meant proximity. Now I know it means trust.

Trusting that they’ll be okay.

Trusting that I’m still a good mom, even if I’m not sitting beside them every minute.

Trusting that sometimes the best way to care for them is to also care for myself.

I used to say “it’s me and my kids against the world.”

Now I say “it’s me and my kids, and rest, against the world.”

So if you need to step away today, do it.

Put on your comfiest blanket, close the door, and give yourself that tiny, holy pause.

Because you don’t just deserve it—you need it.

And your kids? They need a mom who knows how to breathe.

💜 — Rochelly