A Mother's Wisdom: Embracing Life's Little Luxuries Without Guilt
In a world often dominated by practicality and restraint, one mother's simple yet profound advice stands out: "You're allowed to enjoy nice things." This mantra, passed down through generations, encapsulates a philosophy that blends indulgence with empowerment, teaching that small pleasures can be transformative.
The Power of a Treat
My mother was a fervent advocate for the restorative power of a treat. She regularly indulged in solo breakfasts at Bettys Tea Rooms, savoring a bacon muffin and coffee in its cosseted calm. Chips were ordered at the slightest provocation, and she had a pre-internet knack for discovering chic hotels. Department store salesladies often coaxed her into buying expensive unguents, but it was never about extravagance—it was about self-care.
Her generosity extended to others, especially during my teens and early 20s when I struggled with illness and unhappiness. She booked lavish lunches, massages, and spa trips, offering solace through indulgence. I recently unearthed a note she sent during my lonely finals, accompanied by cash: "Buy yourself something frivolous darling, a nice nail polish?" This wasn't spoiling; it was a lesson in kindness to oneself.
Cultivating Confidence
Despite this, she was no princess. Growing up one of six in a financially strained family, she took on caring responsibilities young, in an era devoid of treats. Feeling "allowed" to have nice things wasn't a birthright but a hard-won confidence she cultivated. Seeking ease and beauty became a quiet act of defiance against her upbringing.
I had the privilege of more financial stability but lacked her nerve. The places she introduced me to often felt intimidating, but she turned it into a game—an implicit "I dare you." Trailing behind her, I gradually emboldened myself: gawping at well-heeled patrons in Parisian brasseries, trying on gossamer cashmere coats, or buying a life-changing lipstick. Her guidance taught me that enjoyment is a skill to be practiced.
The Habit of Permission
Now in my 50s, I still sometimes falter, wandering like the little match girl, peering into shop windows but afraid to enter. The fear of being out of place or embarrassing myself lingers. But in those moments, I channel my mother's voice. I remind myself: I'm allowed to sip tea in a palatial hotel without staying there, breeze into an empty antique shop as if shopping for a £40,000 stuffed giraffe, or dine alone in a restaurant with starched tablecloths.
It's frivolous, yes, and tough on the bank balance. Yet, giving yourself permission for joyful, indulgent acts is powerful, especially amid sadness, fear, or global turmoil. We're here for a good time, not a long time—a truth underscored by my mother's death at 63, en route to Rome, likely planning a lovely lunch. Her legacy lives on in every small luxury embraced without guilt.
