My husband was blindsided once I informed him I used to be leaving after a dishwasher incident tipped me over the sting. What occurred subsequent could appear controversial, however each middle-aged girl who feels she deserves extra will perceive

There’s a moment in midlife when most women think, who the hell am I? Mine came aged 53, something my family refers to as ‘the time Mum got mad and ran away’.

I prefer to think of it as my great untethering.

Burnt out from decades of keeping the household plates spinning, the day I watched one of my family wander past the full dishwasher because they knew I’d unload it, I decided something had to change.

That something came in the form of me taking an impromptu eight-month sabbatical from domestic life, leaving my husband and two sons, then 19 and 20, to figure things out at home.

I’d recently mourned the death of an old friend the same age, and had a slow dawning that I felt sad, invisible, perimenopausal and perpetually peed off.

Consumed by a rising panic that I’d forgotten what I wanted from life, I thought: screw this, it’s time I did something for me.

It was something akin to Eat, Pray, Love (minus the divorce and the self-indulgent navel-gazing) and Shirley Valentine (minus the fling with the Greek waiter – or any man for that matter).

Practically and financially, I was fortunate to be able to take a break from my life – I know not everyone has the option. Yet I also know of many women who wait too long for the ‘right moment’ that never arrives.

This wasn’t about running away from my marriage – I still loved my husband. It was me I needed a break from, so I could re-enter daily life on my own terms.

My two boys are the best thing in my life, but any mother knows that you never really switch off.

Aside from years of school logistics, endless sport fixtures and the calendar of haircuts, dental appointments and organising uniforms, it’s the endless thinking for others that wears you out.

Who’s had a rough day? Which friend needs a birthday card? Have we called Grandma this week? Are the kids slacking with their school work?

I’d also been helping to care for my husband’s elderly parents. I was exhausted.

Of course, I was complicit in all this. People will not empty the dishwasher, do the laundry, fill the fridge or clean bathrooms when they know that Mum will do it. Watch a teenager clean up after a meal and odds are you’ll be redoing it yourself ten minutes later. Even when you delegate, your brain doesn’t get the day off.

My Shirley Valentine moment came in late February 2022. I was alone at our family beach house, after spending a few days there with my mother, dusting the place down post lockdown.

The day before I was due to fly back home to Sydney, I was sitting with a coffee watching the sunrise, and I thought: ‘Do I even need to go back right now?’

My husband’s career as a financier had been enjoying a quiet renaissance, and he was very happy and busy.

Now they were at university, the boys were revelling in the most exciting time of their lives, albeit living at home.

It was time to test my theory that they could cope without me. I was sure they could find their way round the toaster and a tin of soup.

Over the next few hours, the idea of taking a break from being mum and wife bubbled up, flitting between ‘I can’t do it!’ and ‘Yes I can!’.

My mind made up, I emailed my husband to say I’d be back ‘at some point’. He immediately called my mother and said: ‘Is Monique all right?’ Diplomatically, Mum said: ‘She seems fine to me. Would you like me to come over and show you the ropes in the kitchen?’

When I spoke to him the next day, he wasn’t cross, confused or even surprised.

I simply told him: ‘I need a break. Not permanently from you, but temporarily from everything. I just want to hear myself think.’

I remember he paused, then said: ‘OK.’

That was it. No fight, no big confrontation, just the beginning of something different.

Let’s be honest, once my husband realised an expensive divorce wasn’t on the cards, he probably headed to the golf course.

For the next five months I stayed at the beach hut, briefly nipping back to Sydney three times to make sure the house was still standing and the boys were surviving. I even turned a blind eye to the overgrown garden.

No one tried to persuade me to stay, although my youngest son came to stay with me a few weekends, which was lovely.

The fact that when they did see me I was happier was a win for everyone.

I became ‘that’ independent, fun woman again, the one my husband fell in love with 22 years before in 2000.

Back then, I worked in marketing in the luxury travel sector, and he was a hotshot financier. Life was a wonderful twirl, stepping off one plane on to another.

But then we had our sons and, with no family nearby at the time, there was a slow realisation that one of us was going to have to be there to look after the boys.

So, while they were little I retrained in wellness and nutrition, cobbling together clients, running a kids’ cookery school in the holidays, and doing some lifestyle and travel writing – but mostly I ran the home.

My life had changed. My husband’s, not so much. As the breadwinner, he couldn’t be home for bathtime and bedtime when he was in a board meeting or another country.

There are plenty of memes now about how a mum lies in bed at night with tens of tabs open in her head, while keeping one ear on a baby monitor, one eye on a child with a temperature – and somehow her executive husband is snoring soundly beside her.

That was me. Tabs open, ears on, brain fried. But instead of speaking up and saying, ‘I’m exhausted, can you help?’ I’d just screech at everyone. And when my youngest finished school in 2021, my simmering resentment became an audible roar.

Being at home with my boys was a privilege that many women don’t have. Yet I also felt trapped. The feelings kept piling up, plus I was heading into perimenopause, which left me feeling like a flat, foggy and faded version of myself.

Of course, that’s part of being an adult and a parent. But there had to be space for me to live, not just exist. I had two choices: do nothing and feel sad, or allow it to fire me up. I chose the latter.

First, I took up swimming in the sea every day, joined a kayaking club and started lifting weights. Fitter and stronger, I began to feel more like myself.

Then I thought, right, what next? That’s when I headed to the beach house, in February 2022. Staying for five months was a bit of a risk. My husband could have said, ‘Well, don’t bother coming home!’ But I wasn’t leaving him. I loved him, he knew that. I was just going in search of my next chapter.

As I worked remotely at the beach house, I tried to remember what I valued. Eventually, it came to me: freedom and curiosity were the two things that had quietly gone missing from my life.

That July I locked up the beach house and headed to Europe for three months, staying with my sister in London and France, our father in Croatia, then on to Italy and the Austrian Alps, on a mission to claim a sense of adventure.

Even mundane jobs like grocery shopping felt fresh in these new locations.

The freedom of solo travelling was delicious and forced me to talk to more people than if I’d been with my husband.

One midsummer morning in Croatia, an older local man saw me hesitating as I stood on a wall overlooking the sea. ‘Jump, it’s safe!’ he called out. It jolted me. I used to be someone who jumped. Off jetties. Into oceans. Into possibility. Somewhere along the way, I stopped. That morning, I jumped again.

In Austria, I had two magnificent weeks alone at a remote, rustic farm-to-table health retreat.

On Instagram I charted my travels and was deluged with messages from other midlife women saying: ‘Oh my God, you’re giving us the guts to think about being brave for ourselves’.

Meanwhile, women I met along the way couldn’t believe I’d left my husband and kids at home. ‘How on earth did you manage this?’ they’d ask, while confessing they too were feeling drained and confused by menopause and midlife and would love to escape.

I called home and swapped photos and stories of my adventures. Yes, I missed them – but not all the endless tabs open in my mind.

There was a moment it would have been easy to cut short my trip and go home when my eldest called me with a broken heart, which, of course, broke mine too.

Yet it taught me that being a good mother doesn’t always mean being the one to show up first. It means knowing when others can – and trusting that they will. My son had his dad ready to swoop in.

I’ll admit the day my husband sent me a photo of himself, proudly standing beside a home-made curry – he’d learned to cook while I was away – a part of me wanted to say: ‘Do you want a bloody medal? I’ve been cooking for you all for 20 years.’

Instead I told him it was amazing, because, actually, it was.

But what if you can’t simply up and leave as I did? Not everyone has five months, or even five hours.

The foundations of my transformation were built from carving out small moments in a packed life to feel better, get fitter, start to have some fun again. Travel was just a bonus.

Still, at some point even that has its limits. I was in Denmark in October 2022 when I felt this chapter of my life was complete. It was time to go home. There wasn’t one defining moment, simply a realisation that life cannot be sustained on ‘holiday feels’ alone. I needed more in the tank to thrive than cocktails and pretty sunsets.

Though not prone to romantic gestures, my husband offered to meet me in Singapore so we could have two nights together before flying home.

Our relationship now is stronger than when we first met.

We talk more. Respect our differences. We’ve found a rhythm that allows space (including for the occasional solo holiday) and an understanding these things keep a long-term relationship healthy.

It turns out absence doesn’t just make the heart grow fonder, it reminds everyone to lift their game.

Rather than just playing golf without a second thought, he now invites me along. Not exactly my dream date, but still, it’s lovely to be asked.

To every woman reading this, I say: go. Have time alone. Take off, even if just for a short while.

Unless your partner’s a complete fool, he will step up. When he does, you’ll likely see him rediscover parts of himself, too. As for my boys, any nerves about coming home to them melted away when they said: ‘Mum, we’re proud of you. You deserved the break.’ I think they were relieved to have me home, though.

Was I glad to return? A loaded question that requires a delicate answer. Yes, because I love my sons, husband, family, friends – they are home. And at the same time, no, because I love who I became and was scared she’d be absorbed back into domestic life, never to be seen again. But I’ve discovered a balance.

Now, I split my time between the family home in Sydney, and the beach house. My husband comes to visit for a few weeks at a time. It’s like dating again.

My absence has transformed our marriage, family life, and how I feel about myself. I’m Monique now, not just wife and mum – and that’s better for everyone.

A Grown Up’s Gap Year by Monique van Tulder is available on amazon.co.uk

As told to Sadie Nicholas