I’m writing from a quiet hotel room in Sandusky, Ohio. I’m alone here—no kids, no chaos, no noise. Unsure of what to do or how to begin my time here, my eyes latch onto the endless stream of cars cruising down the main road just off of I-90 outside my window. The sky is dense with cloud cover and profoundly gray, just as it has been for weeks. It’s the kind of gray that deflates and depresses, the kind of gray that makes me ache for the sun.
Check in was less than an hour ago and I’m already feeling lonely and lost, missing Jim and the boys back home, missing my dear friend Kristina who flew all the way from Germany to visit me for a few days before I dropped her off in Ohio to ring in the new year with her boyfriend’s family.
These getaways are rare for me, and yet, they are becoming more frequent. It took me three entire years to make my first getaway from the kids, and since then I’ve tried to do it every few months or so, especially after Jim’s been in NYC for work.
This is my seventh trip away since becoming a mother. I’ve been on a yoga retreat, a book retreat, rented an A-frame on Lake Huron, and stayed in hotels in Bay City, Ann Arbor, and Royal Oak.
The first few hours are the hardest. I battle a constant pull to return home before I’ve even left. I feel as though I’m drowning in motherhood if I stay, and guilt-ridden if I go.
This version of me feels far-removed from the Chelsea who bought a one-way ticket and fearlessly solo-traveled Canada and Europe for the better half of one year. This version of me feels scared, timid, and anxious. This version of me is desperate to escape the noise and chaos of a typical day at home and, somehow, hesitant to endure the quiet and calm of a night away.
I try not to run away from these feelings just because they are uncomfortable. I try to sit with them, allow myself to feel them, and listen to what they are trying to tell me. During the first few hours away I realize that I am lonely, sad, and anxious because I don’t know who I am outside of Loren and Kai’s mom. I don’t know who I am outside of my home where my role is that of primary caregiver. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to enjoy a night away, to pass an entire night without bedtime routines and nightly wake ups filled with requests for snuggles, more water, and reassurance that there are no monsters under the bed.
Throughout the past 3.5 years, since becoming a mother, I’ve spent 9 nights away from my children. That’s 9 out of the past 1,278 nights or 0.007% of my time. I’m sure some of you can relate. It’s hard to get away.
I am a mother, and I wholeheartedly love that role, but since having kids I’ve felt lost—utterly consumed and occasionally swallowed by my identity as mother. It feels safe to stay at home where I am mommy, and increasingly vulnerable to step away where I am…what? Who am I outside of Loren and Kai’s mother?
A few months ago, I attended my first yoga class at a local studio in town. In the bathroom there was a quote from George Bernard Shaw, a famous Irish playwright and writer: “Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” It was one of those ah-ha! moments for me, a new perspective on the old adage to “discover who you are.”
I’ve been trying to do that since becoming a mother, trying to discover myself. I’ve been trying to find my way back to who I was pre-kids and who figure out who I am post-kids. I’ve been waiting for some magical revelation to turn up an answer and set things straight. And I’ve been stuck there, in that waiting place for far too long. Until Shaw’s quote gave me a new perspective.
Sure, life has to look differently than it used to. I can’t buy a one-way ticket and skip off globetrotting for twelve months, as much as I sometimes want to, but I can find moments in everyday life, and in the occasional getaway, where I create a reality that gives life and meaning.
I do this thing every time a flock of geese passes overhead. I calculate their approximate direction, panic when I realize they’re heading the wrong way. I think to myself, “Are they going to make it? Do they really know where they’re going? Why are they leaving so late in the season?” I analyze the asymmetry of their V formation and wonder if they’ll find their optimal flight pattern.
I can’t help it. I want so badly for them to make it, to find their way. I find myself rooting for them. And then I think to myself, f*ck, if that isn’t how I feel every god-damned day as a mother.
In those first few hours of a much-needed getaway, when I’m still feeling guilty about leaving and simultaneously longing to return home, I remind myself that I am here to fulfill a basic need. I am here to rediscover and participate in the things that fuel me so that I can return home as a better person for myself and for my kids.
So I write. I practice yoga. I plan an upcoming trip. I open Jesmyn Ward’s latest book and read. I let myself cry. I take a slow walk in a lakeshore park. I sip on a cup of herbal tea. I listen to Ólafur Arnalds.
I pause to appreciate the starlings and the wild intuitiveness of their morphing formations. I walk barefoot through the forest on a bed of soft leaves. I press the soles of my feet into the cold mud of the earth and invite a subtle shiver. I pause to marvel at the sunset, or run out into the street at daybreak to greet the rising sun as it tears above the trees. I sit on the seat of a swing and throw my head back for a dazzling new perspective. I watch as a flock of geese bat their wide wings overhead and I trust they will find their way. I tell myself they are hurtling towards warmth.
And with each of these moments, I feel myself coming alive. I am reminded that I am more than an exhausted, stressed out mother. I am reminded that I am capable of creating myself, even if it’s messy and indirect. I am reminded that I am, in my own asymmetrical way, hurtling towards warmth.
Eventually, the discomfort passes. I find myself enjoying every minute of my time away. I welcome the slowness and the silence. And when night comes, I sprawl out in my king size bed and sleep for twelve uninterrupted hours.