Coffee Makers, Candles and Everything

It began on the statistically most unreasonable day of the week - a Tueday. Her coffee machine sputtered, hissed and gave up the will to live. She stared at it for a whole minute before she realized she didn't have the mental bandwidth to care. Somewhere in the background, a child was screaming about a pain in a limb right before homework time and another about fractions, and someone else - possibly herself - was crying.

She had 5 children. This meant she hadn't had an uninterrupted thought since the Obama administration. 

Still, she tried to take “self-care” seriously. Instagram insisted it was the key to mental stability. So she bought the recommended candle—“Glow From Within”—for $39.99. It claimed to “reset the nervous system and help you Glow From Within”. It did not. But it did briefly mask the scent of garbage waiting to be taken out and despair.

Her friends told her she seemed "centered". She was - between a mental breakdown and apathy. Her wellness routine was precise (in theory) and (catastrophic) in practice. She woke up at 5 a.m to workout, only to be joined by her youngest who believed working out meant "I get to horseback ride on mommy when she is stretched out on all fours".

Once, she attempted a weekend yoga retreat. By the second day, she’d spent more time on the phone with babysitters than in actual poses. The instructor told her to “let go of stress.” She considered letting go of her entire family instead.

Her yoga mat now functioned as a Lego storage unit. Her bookshelf was lined with Atomic Habits, The Power of Now, and Bhagavad Gita for Busy Professionals. She’d skimmed all three and found no mention of carpools.

Her therapist — who said “you got this” like a moral prescription — suggested “mindful breathing.”
She tried.
Inhale: generational trauma.
Exhale: PTA sign-up sheet.
It didn’t help.

Meanwhile, her grandmother had once cured sadness by lying down and deciding not to deal with it until next week. She lived to ninety-six. Clearly, this approach had merit.

One night, when she was mindlessly scrolling through instagram, she watched an influencer in a chic outfit holding a green drink asking her to "protect her inner peace". Something snapped inside her and she laughed so hard, she scared the semi-asleep child. 

The next morning, she didn’t light the candle. Didn’t do gratitude journaling. She just drank coffee — and stared at her five small miracles of chaos as they fought over breakfast.

It wasn't enlightenment, but an awakening and that felt enough.

If inner peace can’t be bought, she’d like at least a bulk discount on caffeine. She’s accepted that serenity may not visit households containing five small humans and a group chat named “Emergency Pickup.”

Her version of self-care now involves saying no to extra volunteer hours, bulk cooking and freezing on the weekend, and ignoring unsolicited WhatsApp medical advice.

After all, inner peace may be pixel-deep, but parenting? That is beautifully, chaotically real.