There's a rhythm to our lives, my husband and I. It's not a flashy, look-at-us sort of rhythm, but a steady, dependable one that's carried us through more than a decade of marriage. We have a good life.
*Ben makes me laugh, even when I'm so tired I could cry. He's trustworthy, honest, and the kind of dad our kids absolutely adore. It's the kind of life I dreamed of growing up.
When we first got together, I didn't mind 'looking after him.' In fact, I loved it. I've always been a bit of a nurturer, and there was something deeply satisfying about creating a nice home for the two of us. Back then, it felt like a choice — a loving, intentional one. Ben worked hard in a physically demanding job, and I took pride in making sure things were easy for him when he got home. I cooked, cleaned, and fussed over him like I was auditioning for Wife of the Year. He loved it. I loved it. We were happy.
But over the years, that dynamic started to feel more complicated.
While I still loved our life, I couldn't shake a certain embarrassment about how traditional it was. It felt out of step with the modern, feminist ideals I admired. Friends and family would occasionally make offhand comments about how much I "did for Ben," and while I'd laugh it off, a tiny part of me felt exposed. At the same time, I couldn't imagine it being any other way. This was our rhythm, and despite the exhaustion, I took a strange comfort in it.
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Then the kids came along, and everything shifted. Suddenly, our traditional setup started feeling a bit less charming and a lot more exhausting. I stayed home when they were young, throwing myself into the chaos of nappies, sleepless nights, and daycare drop-offs. Later, I picked up a retail job during school hours to help with the bills, but the lion's share of the mental load stayed firmly in my lap. Meanwhile, Ben's job remained physically taxing, so it made sense for me to keep handling things at home. At least, that's what I told myself.
Ben's hobbies, however, didn't slow down. In fact, they seemed to multiply. Fishing trips, golf weekends, jiu-jitsu classes, a garage band with his mates, even a dabble in home brewing. His calendar was a mosaic of leisure and passion projects, while mine was a relentless list of errands, school runs, and meal prep.
It wasn't that Ben didn't help; he did, but his "help" was even managed by me. And there was an unspoken understanding that his hobbies were non-negotiable. They were part of who he was, and I'd always admired his enthusiasm for life. So I swallowed my exhaustion, soldiered on, and told myself it was fine. In truth, sometimes parenting was easier when he wasn't there. Then, this past Christmas, he said something that changed everything that I thought about our rhythm.
"You're impossible to shop for," he said, tossing the comment out casually over breakfast. "You don't have any hobbies."
I felt the words land like a slap. At first, I was offended. Did Ben not know me? Could he really not think of anything but the same scented candles he'd bought me every year?
"OK, Ben," I snapped, a little sharper than I intended. "Let me know what time of the day I'd squeeze my hobbies into."
His brow furrowed, and his voice turned defensive. "Sorry I ever said anything."
We let it drop, but the thought had planted itself in my mind, quietly growing over the next few weeks. It followed me through family catch-ups, New Year's Eve celebrations, and summer school holidays. The realisation simmered: he was right. I didn't have hobbies. I couldn't remember the last time I'd done something purely for myself. Every hour of my day was accounted for, and none of it belonged to me.
Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped being *Lila, the person, and become Lila, the wife and mother. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. The reason I didn't have hobbies wasn't some personal failure. It was because my time had been swallowed up by everything else — by Ben's hobbies, by the endless mental load of running a household, by the unspoken expectation that my needs came last.
Ben hadn't meant to hurt me, but his words shone a spotlight on a glaring imbalance in our marriage. While he'd cultivated a life full of interests and passions, I'd been so busy holding down the fort that I'd neglected to build one of my own. And now, I wasn't sure where to start. The idea of carving out time for a hobby felt overwhelming, I barely had the energy to keep up with our current schedule, let alone add something new.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that something had to change. I couldn't keep pouring from an empty cup. If I wanted to be the best version of myself — for me, for Ben, and for our kids — I needed to reclaim a little piece of my identity. That meant Ben might have to make some sacrifices too.
Ben was surprised but not dismissive when I brought the subject back up. "Of course," he said. "What do you want to do?"
That was the million-dollar question. What did I want to do? I had no idea. The thought of picking a hobby felt almost comical. Did I want to paint? Join a book club? Take up yoga? None of it felt like me, but I didn't know what me even felt like anymore.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I'd like the space to figure it out."
For now, Ben is cutting back on his extra-curriculars so I can try a few things, and I'm gingerly dipping my toes into the world outside of our family to see what it is I even like to do.
Ben's comment was a wake-up call — a gentle nudge to re-evaluate the life we'd built together. And while it stung at first, I'm grateful for it. Because now, we're not just navigating the rhythm of our lives; we're rewriting it.
Feature Image: Getty.
