There’s a certain magic that happens in the Publix parking lot. Not the kind that involves BOGO deals or the bakery lady slipping your kids a free cookie—though bless her forever—but that quiet, invisible kind that happens when you slide into the driver’s seat, close the door, and… don’t move.
You just sit there. Engine running. AC humming. Maybe your half-melted iced coffee is sweating in the cup holder. Maybe you can hear the crinkle of a rogue Target bag shifting on the passenger seat. And for a few blessed minutes, no one needs you.
You can see the Publix cart boy doing his rounds. You can see the sun bouncing off windshields like tiny disco lights. And somewhere in the distance, probably at home, someone is already asking where their shoes are. But here, right now, it’s just you—the woman who pretends she’s checking her phone but is really zoning out so hard she could astral project.
This isn’t hiding. This is survival.
Earlier today, Blanca and Patrick had a “heated discussion” about who got the blue popsicle, which ended with one of them weeping dramatically into the pool noodles in aisle nine. Dave texted something about how the Wi-Fi is acting up again, as if I’m now the cable repair technician, too. So yes, I bought the groceries. I loaded them in the trunk. And then I gave myself permission to exist in stillness.
The car smells faintly of sunscreen and stale fries. The sun visor mirror is still flipped down from when I checked my mascara in line, pretending I was totally fine while my cart contained three boxes of mac and cheese and a bottle of wine I absolutely did not plan to share.
This little slice of peace lasts exactly seven minutes. Eight, if I’m lucky. Long enough for the AC to cool my neck, for the chaos in my brain to slow down, and for me to remember that I am not just a mom, but a person—a person who enjoys silence, and iced coffee, and not being asked to open a granola bar every twelve seconds.
Then, just like that, I’ll take a deep breath, shift into drive, and head home to the noise again. But those few stolen minutes in the Publix parking lot? They’re mine. My personal spa session. My mini-vacation.
Honestly, it’s the only kind of self-care that ever actually happens.