My Pleasures Are Never Guilty

Tuesday evening I attended a dinner hosted by Her Tech Circle. The venue was softly arranged, light falling on the tables, the atmosphere relaxed yet dignified. There was a hint of champagne bubbles in the air, and a long-missed sense of ease.

Most of the women present were already C-level at large companies, or ran their own businesses. They spoke with confidence, their eyes carrying decisiveness. To be honest, I was a bit nervous at first in such a setting—after all, everyone sitting here had earned their place through no small effort. A few of us girls were able to attend mainly because my company was a sponsor and got extra tickets (a bunch of devs mixed in among the C*Os 🤣).

What truly put me at ease was a small ice-breaking activity.

Besides introducing themselves, everyone had to name one guilty pleasure.

Someone laughed and said she liked dipping bread in condensed milk late at night. Someone said on Friday nights she turns off her phone and curls up on the sofa alone to watch mindless Netflix shows. Another admitted she often secretly hoards donuts in the office.

When it was my turn, I blurted out: I don't have guilty pleasures, only pleasures. Everyone laughed, and I added: If I said I enjoy code review, I wonder if anyone would hit me.

As the laughter faded, I suddenly felt a pang of sadness.

—

Why do these most ordinary little indulgences have to be labeled guilty?

In English, "guilty pleasure" originally refers to things you know are not particularly nutritious, maybe even a bit embarrassing, but you can't help doing anyway—like binge-watching soap operas or eating junk food. The term carries a self-deprecating tone, as if you're admitting you're not perfect.

But when applied to women, it often gets magnified endlessly. Society has long imposed harsher expectations on women: work hard, take care of the family, stay in shape, remain emotionally stable, be disciplined and resilient, and above all, be graceful and composed.

So when a woman simply wants a bite of something sweet, to lounge on the sofa, or to turn off her phone, she feels she must first say "guilty"—as if only then can others forgive her for relaxing.

But is it really guilt?

—

I think of the feelings many working mothers have shared with me.

After a meeting at the office, rushing to pick up their child, the thought arises: "Have I not spent enough time with him?" After finally getting the child to sleep, wanting to watch one episode, they think: "Shouldn't I be replying to work emails first?" Even taking a day off just to rest brings unease: Will others think I'm not dedicated enough?

This guilt often doesn't come from anyone actually blaming them, but from society's invisible voices and unspoken expectations, gradually internalized. Over time, even the smallest enjoyment has to be framed as "guilty."

But if a person is always trapped in a sense of indebtedness, where can she draw strength from?

—

I increasingly feel that these so-called guilty pleasures are not guilty at all—they are caring, self-care.

The sweetness of condensed milk is the body reminding you: you also deserve simple happiness. Turning off your phone on Friday night is saying: this week's effort has been enough. Curling up on the sofa to watch shows is recharging your emotional battery.

Especially for working mothers, these small indulgences are the secret to staying afloat. Without such restorative moments, the drain of dual roles would be impossible to withstand.

What we need is never fewer guilty pleasures, but to remove the "guilty" altogether.

—

The moments shared at the dinner table that evening were none of them grand. No one said they loved doing annual strategic planning, and no one said they were obsessed with running marathons. Everyone spoke of the smallest, most ordinary indulgences in life.

But it is precisely these small moments that pull a powerful person back into being a real human. In that instant, they shed their halos and titles, revealing their softest side.

I suddenly felt that such moments matter more than anything.

Because they remind us: happiness needs no explanation. Relaxation needs no guilt.

—

Writing this, I recall I once wrote that we all deserve a good team. In the same way, we all deserve the best things in this world, even if only for a moment of happiness.

When a person can sincerely admit, "My pleasures are never guilty," at that moment she is granting herself a new kind of permission: permission to pause, permission to be willful, permission to enjoy happiness without guilt.

Because taking care of yourself is itself one of the most important responsibilities.

So next time someone asks me about my guilty pleasure, I will answer with a smile:

My pleasures are never guilty.