Microdosing Self-Care: Finding Balance in Mom Life

Blog

May 26

It’s 6 a.m., and I’ve set my yoga app for 7 minutes while watching the baby wiggle and resettle on the monitor. Savasana ends. The monitor slowly pans from one room to another—miraculously, all three kids are still asleep. I open Insight Timer and pick a 10-minute meditation. By the time it's winding down, I hear the baby chatting to himself, followed by the familiar squawks of discontent. His little “come get me” anthem.

This is what self-care looks like now.

I used to think of self-care as a dedicated, uninterrupted ritual- a long bath, an hour at the gym, a massage. Something you left normal life to go do. A reset.

But with three very young kids, I’ve had to completely reimagine what it means to take care of myself. There’s rarely a seven-step skincare routine. No gym classes. And not many opportunities to leave my life for a little while because there are three little humans at home who need me, sometimes all at once.

For a while, I felt bogged down by the thought that I didn’t get any time to myself. But I’ve come to realize-that was just a story. I do get time. It just doesn’t always look the way I want it to.

Lately, I’ve been playing with the idea of microdosing self-care.

Microdosing is a term often used in the world of psychedelics-taking tiny doses meant to boost mood, focus, creativity, or overall well-being. The idea isn’t to escape reality, but to meet it with more presence and ease.

What if we could apply that concept to self-care?

Instead of waiting for big chunks of alone time that may never come, what if we gave ourselves tiny doses of care throughout the day?

For me, microdosed self-care might look like:

2 minutes of deep breathing when life feels overwhelming
A quick tech break and a spontaneous tickle attack with my kids.
Drinking my coffee while it’s still hot in a calm, quiet house before everyone wakes up
Driving my 4-year-old home from preschool with the windows down, each of us letting our arms ride the wind.

These aren’t grand gestures. But they help. They remind me I’m still here, still a person, still worthy of care—even in the blur of mothering small children.

It’s not about doing more. It’s about noticing what’s already available—and choosing to take it. It’s about finding moments of stillness, connection, or breath, even in chaos.

Care doesn’t have to be dramatic to be meaningful. Sometimes, the smallest acts are the most sustaining. And right now, this is enough.