There comes a point in the modern mother’s life when she realises she is no longer a person… she is a suggestion box with legs. A walking, talking, upright opportunity for strangers, relatives, neighbours, and occasionally the barista to bestow holy nuggets of wisdom she did not ask for, did not hint at needing, and did not consciously manifest into existence.
And look… sometimes advice really does land like a warm hug shaped out of sentences. You feel held, understood, less alone. But other times? Other times it arrives with all the emotional comfort of someone handing you a spreadsheet when what you asked for — out loud, in plain English, with tears threatening mutiny — was a hug.
And when I say “hug,” I mean something very specific.
Not metaphorical comfort.
Not a mindfulness technique.
Not a list of bullet-pointed strategies.
I mean wine.
A crisp, cold, gently whispering sauv blanc that slides into your hand like, “Shhh, babe. You’ve done enough today. Sit.”
That kind of hug.
The kind that doesn’t fix a thing but makes surviving the next ten minutes feel possible.
Send wine, not advice.
A middle-aged mother’s battle cry.
“Support me or pour me a drink. Choose wisely.”
The Global Epidemic of Unsolicited Advice
We live in a world where people will give advice under ANY conditions.
They will give advice when you look tired.
They will give advice when you look fine.
They will give advice when you post one vague sentence like, “Wow, today.”
They will give advice if you sneeze too loudly at the supermarket.
Motherhood seems to turn all women into a public suggestion portal. If someone spots a toddler within a 5km radius of you, they immediately unlock a side quest titled Offering You Guidance from 1987.
You’ll be waiting in line, just trying to buy bananas, and suddenly a woman with a cart full of cat food will lean in and whisper, “You know, children only scream like that when the mother is stressed.”
Oh?
Is that so, Barbara?
Should I calm down before or after I wrestle Ruby out of the freezer section where she has attempted to adopt a bag of peas as her new sibling?
Because right now I am giving strong “woman who hasn’t slept since MySpace was still a thing” energy, and honestly, Barbara — your feedback is one wobbly comment away from me crying into the hot chook I only came here to buy so I wouldn’t have to cook dinner.
And that’s the thing: advice from strangers lands… strangely.
It hits with the same energy as dairy when your stomach’s been holding a grudge for a decade.
It’s the emotional equivalent of eating something your body instantly rejects like, “Nope. We don’t do that anymore.”
Advice from friends arrives wrapped in context and compassion.
Advice from strangers shows up dusted in quiet judgement, a faint puff of superiority, and the lingering spiritual scent of stale perfume from someone who definitely calls every woman under 40 “darl.”
The Wild Creatures Who Won’t Stop Giving Me Advice
Let’s examine the main species of unsolicited-advice givers that roam Australia.
1. The Supermarket Oracle
A majestic elder, often spotted near the yoghurt fridge. She firmly believes children shouldn’t snack before noon, socks and shoes are mandatory even if those sweet little feet never touch the floor, mothers should hide all signs of exhaustion, and perimenopause can be cured with a brisk walk and a good attitude.
She travels in a cloud of phantom lavender and outdated parenting myths.
2. The Park Philosopher
Her child is gliding down the plastic equipment like a cherub auditioning for a Greek mythology reboot, while yours is in the corner actively negotiating with a stick he has named “Barry.” She approaches with the serene glow of someone who has never discovered mashed banana in her bra, radiating the kind of peace only attainable by mothers whose children snack exclusively on air and organic virtue.
She offers her wisdom gently, with a soft smile that suggests she has achieved enlightenment.
“I find toddlers respond best to gentle redirection,” she says.
That’s very cute, Cassandra.
Mine responds best to snacks and witchcraft.
3. The Boomer Archivist (Back-in-My-Day Edition)
This one is an icon.
A relic.
A living museum exhibit who carries the spirit of 1974 in her handbag. She hits you with the classics, delivered proudly and without hesitation: “Back in my day, kids drank hose water and survived.”
Yes, Dianne.
And back in your day, seatbelts were optional, sunscreen was a rumor, and asbestos was considered a lifestyle choice. Let’s evolve.
4. The Sleep Training Soldier
She arrives armed with data.
She arrives armed with charts.
She arrives armed with quotes from not one, not two, but three separate sleep consultants, all of whom apparently transformed her household into a temple of silent, well-rested enlightenment. Her confidence is unshakeable, forged in the fires of colour-coded routines and white-noise machines calibrated by the gods themselves.
Her toddler sleeps from 6pm to 7am every night because she followed a routine crafted by a Scandinavian woman named Freja who lives in an all-wooden home, breastfeeds while effortlessly braiding her own hair, and probably eats cloudberries for breakfast while journaling about seasonal intentions. Freja has never known chaos. Freja has never met your toddler.
Good for you, Freja.
Some of us are simply trying to pee alone.
5. The Facebook Marketplace Auntie
You message her about a stroller.
A simple transaction.
A straightforward inquiry: Is this still available?
But the Facebook Marketplace Auntie does not traffic in simplicity. Oh no. She traffics in unsolicited mentorship. By the time she replies, she has not only confirmed the pram is available, she has also assessed your entire life journey, diagnosed your child’s sleep patterns, and woven in a gentle-but-pointed comment about how toddlers “need more fresh air these days.”
You came looking for a secondhand pram.
Somehow, within four messages, she has given you:
• parenting advice
• nutritional commentary
• a personal anecdote from 1993
• a warning about screen time
• and a full recipe for pumpkin soup that “even the fussiest little ones adore”
You arrived as a buyer.
You left emotionally audited.
6. The Outdoor-Play Purist
She is the high priestess of open-air parenting, preaching the gospel of dawn activities and barefoot childhood. In her world, children should be outside at sunrise, absorbing vitamin D, building feral resilience, and learning life lessons from damp grass and ethically sourced mud. She speaks about “nature play” the way some people speak about pilgrimage.
Meanwhile, back in my entirely human household, I’m just trying to convince Ruby to keep pants on long enough to leave the house without presenting as a tiny, joyful nudist who believes clothing is a capitalist conspiracy. By the time I wrangle socks onto her feet, the Purist has already completed a sunrise hike, foraged organic berries, and posted a reel about the importance of outdoor independence.
I love the idea in theory.
In practice, I’m doing hostage negotiations with trousers.
What Advice Does to a Mother’s Brain
Here’s the truth about the maternal mind during a meltdown: there is no cognitive bandwidth left. None. Zero. The lights are on, but every staff member has walked off the shift. You’re running on fumes and crumbs and whatever leftover serotonin was hiding behind the couch.
Your brain is busy trying not to cry in public, listening for the suspicious sound of toddler silence (never a good sign), and trying to decipher whether that smell belongs to food, laundry, or an omen. Somewhere in there, you’re also fantasizing about fleeing to a hotel for 24 hours where no one can find you unless they know the Wi-Fi password.
In that state?
There is no room for extra information, suggestions, tips, strategies, printouts, PDFs, or a TED Talk recommendation from Janet.
Advice is gorgeous when your mind is open.
But some days, the brain is closed for renovations and the construction crew has left for smoko.
Some days you don’t need lessons.
You don’t need tools.
You don’t need education.
What you need is a soft place to land, a moment to breathe, and perhaps a glass of something fermented that whispers, “Sit down, babe. You made it through.”
“Some days I don’t need wisdom,
I need silence and something cold in a glass.”
When Support Matters More Than Solutions
There are days when even the gentlest suggestion feels like someone handing you a homework assignment. You post one tiny sentence — “Today was a LOT” — and you’re not asking for solutions. You’re not opening the floor for parenting strategies. You’re not summoning the Council of Wise Women to gather under the full moon and troubleshoot your life choices. You just want someone to nod and say, “Babe… that sounds rough.”
Because that acknowledgment — that tiny moment of being witnessed instead of managed — is what actually fills the cup. Not advice, not a step-by-step plan, not a printable routine someone found on Pinterest in 2017. Just someone noticing the weight you’re dragging behind you like an emotional wheelie bin.
Advice tries to fix.
Support tries to soothe.
And wine? Wine tries to make the day fuzzy enough that the Duplo block you stepped on at 6:14am stops replaying in your brain like a war flashback.
And honestly, what I want on those days isn’t complicated. I want a secret chocolate stash no one else in the house knows exists. I want a nap long enough to disturb the local census. I want someone — anyone — to preheat the oven without needing a TED Talk. I want laundry that folds itself like it’s auditioning for a Disney reboot. I want the household noise level to come with a mute button, a volume slider, and possibly an off switch for emergencies.
And, obviously…
I want wine.
A Toast to the Women Who Get It
And look — I’m not asking for miracles. I’m not asking for enlightenment, or wisdom, or a downloadable PDF titled “How to Fix Your Entire Life Before School Pick-Up.” I just want a little mercy. A little humor. A little space to breathe without someone suggesting magnesium, moon water, or a colour-coded routine.
Because for all the chaos and all the commentary, there’s one thing every exhausted woman knows in her bones: survival is a team sport. We laugh, we cry, we wine, we repeat. And somehow, through the mess and the madness, we keep going — mostly out of love, partly out of caffeine, and entirely because quitting isn’t an option unless someone builds a resort exclusively for emotionally fried mothers.
Until then, we toast. We breathe. We try again. And we silently pray that tomorrow’s unsolicited advisors stay in their natural habitat: minding their own business.
So here’s to every woman who’s ever been handed advice when what she actually needed was a break, a snack, a nap, or a glass of something cold and judgment-free.
May your wine be chilled, your patience be steady, and your unsolicited advisors be blissfully scarce.
Send wine, not advice.
Pour accordingly.
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