The Day I Realised I'm Unhappy – And Why a Guinea Pig Treat Saved Me

"The Day I Realised I'm Unhappy – And Why a Guinea Pig Treat Saved Me"

This morning started like most in this house—loud.

The kettle hadn’t even finished boiling before I was being reminded, for the fifth time, to top up the electric.

Same sentence. Same tone. Different day.

I’d already said I’d do it. Calmly.

But apparently, unless it’s done immediately and on someone else's terms, it’s like I never said it at all.

You ever feel like someone’s shadow is following you around just to check you’re still functioning?

I moved to another room.

I was followed.

I moved again.

Still followed. Talking. Explaining. Justifying.

And I just stood there thinking… this is not how I want to live.

The moment the door shut behind him, the kids rushed in.

And here’s the part that hurts to admit—I couldn’t even enjoy them.

Not because of anything they did.

Because I was already drained.

Because the emotional energy meant for them had already been bled dry by keeping the peace.

And I realised something I’ve been skimming past for a long time:

> I am deeply, consistently, quietly unhappy.

The only time I really smile?

When I’m alone with my music.

When I’m jogging with the wind in my face.

When I’m in the attic packing forage.

Isn’t that a little heartbreaking?

To realise that the most joyful version of yourself only exists when no one else is around?

Later, when he returned and I casually said I’d love to go on a long solo bike ride one day—just me, the road, and music—I was met with:

> “Well at least I’m not out all night anymore, I’m making up for those old days.”

A response that somehow turned my craving for independence into a reminder that I should be grateful for someone doing the bare minimum now.

Wrapped in guilt.

Tied with a bow.

I didn’t reply. I just said I was too hot and walked inside.

Because what else do you say when the need for space is turned into an accusation?

This is where Guinea Gourmet Treats became more than just a business.

When I’m blending herbs, laying out dandelion, lemon balm, and rose petals… no one is questioning me.

No one is talking over me.

No one is asking for anything.

It’s just me.

Me, and the crackle of dried leaves.

Me, and the knowledge that something I’m creating with love is going to bring joy to someone’s little fluff ball.

It’s peaceful. Purposeful. Quiet.

It’s mine.

I didn’t rebuild my life around a treat business just because I love animals (though I do, with my whole heart).

I did it because in a life where everyone takes something from me—this is the one thing that gives something back.

I know I’m not alone in this.

There are so many women out there silently drowning in emotional noise, plastering on smiles, trying to keep households running, partners calm, and kids happy.

So if that’s you?

Know this:

You’re not broken for craving space.

You’re not cold for only smiling when you're alone.

And you’re not selfish for wanting a life that doesn’t just revolve around keeping other people emotionally fed while you starve inside.

If you’re looking for a little lightness, a gentle way to reconnect with joy—take a peek at the new forage mixes.

They’re made in that attic, in the quiet, in those moments where I remember who I really am.

www.guineagourmettreats.co.uk

Because sometimes a handful of herbs, a crunch of carrot, or a flower petal isn’t just a treat for your animal—it’s a little reminder that you still matter too.