Bath Time With... is a new series from 39BC. We visit the bathrooms of our muses and friends — and find that a private space has a way of unlocking a uniquely intimate conversation about routines, rituals, and the objects they can't live without.

This week: Matilda Goad, founder of homeware company, MG&Co.

My mornings are hectic. I have a five-year-old, a three-year-old, and I’m seven months pregnant with my third child. Life is busy in that full-body way — work, school runs, growing a human — and this pregnancy has felt much harder than my first. Six years ago, I had more space around me. Now, I’m doing everything at once.

So I’ve become quite disciplined about small rituals that make me feel good.

Showers are my wake-up. Baths are my wind-down.

If I don’t shower in the morning, I don’t feel fully awake. It’s not even about cleanliness — it’s about water hitting my body. That physical jolt. Recently, I’ve added dry skin brushing before I get in. Pregnancy makes everything feel slower — circulation, energy — and brushing feels like I’m firing my body up for the day. It’s efficient, which matters when you’re trying to get three people dressed before 8 a.m.

I always finish with a burst of cold water. It’s not pleasant, but it’s clarifying. It feels like a tangible start. Like the day has officially begun.

The bath, though — the bath is different.

The bath is mine.

At the moment, I’m putting in an almost absurd amount of magnesium salts. They’ve genuinely helped with sleep and with those strange pregnancy twinges that arrive at night. I’ve also been using Fig Milk, which feels deeply feminine — in a way that doesn’t feel performative. There’s something about scent when you’re pregnant. It feels amplified. Intentional.

But the thing I’m truly obsessive about is lighting.

I cannot bear overhead lights in the evening. If I walk into the house and a spotlight is on, I will go around turning everything off like a slightly unhinged person. Bathrooms are often the worst offenders — bright, sterile, overly technical. Especially in hotels. So much lighting, and yet none of it flattering or calming.

Lighting changes everything about how a bath feels.

Ideally, you’d have multiple circuits in a room — overhead for practical moments, wall lights for atmosphere — but even if you don’t, a dimmer switch can transform the space. And candles absolutely count as lighting. A single large pillar candle beside the bath gives off enough light to read by. You don’t need a constellation of tea lights. One source of low, warm light is enough to shift your mood entirely.

I went to Stockholm one January, when it was getting dark at two in the afternoon, and I loved how they embraced it. Candles lit in the middle of the day. No apology for the darkness. That sense of leaning into the season rather than fighting it has stayed with me.

Bathrooms, in general, are misunderstood rooms.

We treat them as functional and sterile — tiles, chrome, brightness — when they could feel like any other space in the house. In my own home, I wanted the bathroom to feel expansive and warm. I grew up in a small cottage with low ceilings and lots of little rooms. Charming, but enclosed. As an adult, I crave space.

My bedroom and bathroom share the same floorboards. It’s open-plan. It feels like one continuous room rather than a separate utility space. I hang art in there. I’ve never understood why bathrooms can’t have pictures. As long as you have proper ventilation, they can be treated like living rooms.

I don’t believe in houses that are too precious, either. When I first designed my home, I didn’t have children yet. I was probably naïve about the chaos that comes with them. Now there are felt-tip pen marks on walls and scuffs where there weren’t before. You have to lean into it. A pristine home that no one can touch isn’t welcoming. It doesn’t feel lived in.

My earliest memories of bathing are joyful. I remember the wallpaper vividly — chintzy and busy — and being crammed into the bath with cousins. Too much bubble bath. It was loud and chaotic and happy. The bathroom was never clinical. It was fun.

Now, my bath is quiet.

Sunday nights are my favorite. I take in the newspaper supplements, knowing they’ll probably get wet and my fingers will go slightly inky. I stay in for maybe fifteen minutes — I’m not someone who props up a laptop. It’s cocooning. Reflective. I think about the week ahead, what’s in my diary, what my children need. Work inevitably drifts in too. I’m creative, and ideas arrive without warning — a narrative for a shoot, a product tweak, something logistical about the website. The bath is one of the few places where those thoughts can land without interruption.

Designing products has always been about that same idea of rethinking the everyday.

The first product I made was a scalloped lampshade — a small shift on something traditional. I’ve always been drawn to objects that are deeply functional but slightly reconsidered. A handle, a hook, a bath mat. Things people use every single day, but rarely think about.

Our bath mats, for example, are based on traditional Portuguese knotted styles, but we made them oversized and added a linen frill. It sounds simple, but why is the bath mat always the most neglected object in the room? People will spend a significant amount on a dress they wear once, but hesitate over something they step onto every morning. I find that fascinating.

Travel feeds that curiosity. Not in the obvious way. My camera roll isn’t full of sunsets — it’s full of cornicing, door hooks, clever hotel details. I’m fascinated by efficiency. By how a coat hook can also hold a suit properly. By the rituals of different cultures. It’s the feeling of a place I try to absorb, not just its aesthetics.

If I had to give one piece of advice to elevate your bath tonight, it would be this: turn off the overhead lights.

Light one candle. Just one.

Let the room dim.

You’ll feel the difference immediately.

And in a life that is often loud and bright and demanding, that shift into softness can feel radical.