Self-care is a lie. There, I said it.

I don’t remember the last time I did something without kids. My only “me time” is between 1–2 a.m., when the house is finally quiet and I’m too tired to even enjoy it. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that showering and changing clothes counted as self-care. That’s… not self-care. That’s survival.

Grocery shopping and errands have become my version of a “girls’ night out.” Except it’s Tuesday at 1 p.m., I’m alone, and I’m paying a babysitter (aka big brother Thomas) so I can roam Costco like some kind of wild party girl. Spoiler: my “shots” are Costco samples, and Gordy in the freezer aisle might be judging me.

This is what motherhood has done to me, errands feel like freedom. Target runs feel like a vacation. A solo trip to the car wash? Basically a spa day.

So, no, I don’t want to hear another influencer’s five-step “self-care routine” that involves a $40 candle and a yoga class I’d have to hire a nanny to attend. Sometimes, self-care is eating snacks in your minivan before anyone knows you’re home. And honestly? That’s good enough for me right now.

Because these days, Costco is my club, Target is my getaway, and if you see me in the parking lot with a five pound tun of Twizzlers  and a blank stare… just know I’m living my best life.