Last week, we talked about how women slowly hand themselves away. I’ve been thinking about that conversation ever since, mostly because it forced me to admit something I hadn’t really said out loud before. I’m in this strange season of trying to figure out what’s next for me. No one has put a deadline on me except me, but somehow I’ve convinced myself I should have the answer already.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If I’m really honest, what I’ve been calling annoyance is probably closer to jealousy. I’m jealous of people who seem able to exist in a moment without immediately planning the next one. They finish one season before starting another. They can sit in silence without mentally making tomorrow’s to-do list. They can simply be. I want that, and I struggle so hard to allow it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The birthdays are finally over for the year. The decorations are put away, the cake has been eaten, and life has settled back into its normal rhythm. Well…until December. Instead of feeling relieved, my brain immediately went looking for the next thing to occupy itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That’s when my body decided it had a different plan. On Sunday, I laid down for a nap without setting an alarm, which, if you’re a mom, probably sounds a little reckless. Before I closed my eyes, I spent fifteen minutes negotiating with myself. Maybe I should write or pay bills. Did Nick need me to take over with Evelyn? What time did someone need to be picked up from work? Not once did I ask myself what I needed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually, I pulled my hoodie over my head, turned the air conditioner to high cool, put HBO on for background noise, and fell asleep. I woke up a few times, realized I was still too tired to get up, and closed my eyes again. When I finally woke up, it was almost six o’clock. My first thought wasn’t, Wow, I must have really needed that.<\/em> It was, I should probably get up.<\/em> I wanted to say goodnight to Evelyn and spend time with the family I had stepped away from for a few hours, as though I had taken an unauthorized leave of absence instead of a nap in my own bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The funny thing is, none of that guilt came from Nick. He’s the one reminding me to slow down and catch my breath. He loves cooking, and I still feel bad when he comes home from work and makes dinner, even though he has never asked me to. We’ve gotten better at recognizing when the other’s bucket is low. Unless both are low. Then we’re just two tired people deciding what can be made with the least emotional investment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The guilt wasn’t coming from him, which made me wonder how long I’ve been carrying it. Probably longer than motherhood. My mom was vigilant too. Keep cash under the car mat. Put your keys between your fingers in a parking lot. Lock the doors. Have an escape plan. Those lessons came from love and her own version of survival, but somewhere along the way, I stopped knowing the difference between being prepared and being at peace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I learned something else this week too. Apparently, I spend a lot of time holding my breath. Physically. I’ll catch myself halfway through the day and realize I haven’t taken a full breath in…I don’t even know how long. When I intentionally inhale and exhale, the tired feeling sinks in almost immediately. It’s like my body has been waiting for permission to stop bracing. Maybe I wasn’t exhausted because I finally rested. Maybe I was exhausted because I finally stopped bracing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Some seasons require us to stay alert, and we don’t always get to choose that. I still hear the town fire alarm and check everyone’s location to make sure none of my kids are near wherever emergency personnel might be headed. I’m aware this is not a rational emergency response plan. It is, however, the one my brain selected. I wonder how many of us have held our breath for so long that our bodies have forgotten how to come out of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So, back to last week. I wrote that I’ve given away so many bits and pieces of myself that I don’t even know what truly makes me tick anymore. The more I’ve sat with that sentence, the more I’ve realized it was true.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I know I love writing, photography, traveling, and collecting little moments that become stories. Lately, I’ve tried to stop automatically inviting a sidekick every time I do something. I sit without music because the silence is nice. I feel selfish for wanting to sleep or be alone when I know someone misses me. I am grateful to be missed, but I miss me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This week, I came across a quote from Sameena S.: “If I could borrow time…I wouldn’t ask to see my childhood again. I’d ask to see my mother before I was born.” It made me wonder who my mother was before everyone needed something from her, and then who I was before everyone needed something from me. Much of it is a blur. Survival mode will do that to you. I don’t miss life before my children. I miss the version of me who could close her eyes without earning the rest first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A few days ago, I was talking to my friend Meg about looking for work once Evelyn starts half days this fall. She asked me, “Why?” After momming so hard for the last four years, why not use those morning hours for myself? I didn’t have an answer because I don’t know what that looks like anymore. Writing? Photography? Working out uninterrupted? I’d probably clean the house and prep dinner so I could feel ahead of the day. Even time that could belong to me immediately becomes about everyone else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then the school called and left me a voicemail offering me a contracted position at the middle school. I should have felt excited, and part of me did, but the anxiety arrived almost immediately. The position would require me to find childcare for a few hours every day. I’ve spent twenty-three years taking care of my children, the last four full time, and now that I finally have the opportunity to spend a few hours without a child with me, I was considering a job watching other people’s children. I am aware of the irony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I could feel the offer becoming a weight on my shoulders simply because it had been offered. Someone chose me, so shouldn’t I say yes? My brain skipped right past whether the position made sense for this season and started working on childcare, schedules, and how to make it work for everyone else. After therapy yesterday and a lot of long talks with Nick, I decided not to take it. I am taking the pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My therapist reminded me that sometimes, when people are afraid of depression or anxiety, they find busy work to keep their minds from feeling the things that are uncomfortable. That landed a little harder than I expected. I had been trying to fill those future mornings before they even belonged to me. Maybe the next step isn’t proving how quickly I can make myself useful again. Maybe it’s letting the quiet happen and paying attention to what comes up in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Taking the pause doesn’t mean I have no interest in working. I’ve reached out to people I know about real estate photography and have been assured there is a market and a need for it. It is work I already enjoy, work that can bring something into our home without taking so much out of me. That feels different. I don’t want to do something just for the sake of being able to say I’m doing something. I want the work I choose to matter to me too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I grew up with parents who loved me and wanted me to succeed, but success had a straightforward definition. You went to college if you could. Otherwise, you worked. At eighteen, it was on you to make something of yourself. I don’t think anyone meant for me to hear that my worth depended on what I produced, but I quietly translated it that way. Maybe taking this pause is how I finally start questioning that translation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We spend years helping our children become themselves. We tell them to be kind, brave, and functional humans, to trust themselves, and to choose the life that is right for them. Sometimes parenting means supporting their choices even when they don’t have everyone’s approval. I can say that to my daughters and believe it. Giving myself the same permission is where things get complicated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I see pieces of myself in my daughters: their energy, determination, fight, and excitement. I also see the worrying, hesitation, and instinct to make themselves smaller so someone else can be comfortable. I don’t want the next forty-five years to teach them that motherhood means disappearing or that a woman’s value is measured only by what she earns, produces, or gives away. I want them to see me write, take photographs, travel, laugh too loudly, and be bold, silly, and fun. I want them to know that rest isn’t something they have to earn and that loving other people doesn’t require abandoning themselves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So I’m taking the pause. I’m going to feel the feels, drink my full Buck Moon water, and take what’s coming. For the first time in a long time, I feel resolved about not knowing exactly what the next chapter looks like. I just know I don’t want to keep doing for the sake of doing something. I want the next thing I do to matter to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Continue the Conversation<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n If today’s essay felt like someone put words to something you’ve been carrying, I think you’ll find a little more of yourself in The Unguided Woman<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It’s not a roadmap or a list of answers. It’s an honest conversation about perimenopause, identity, grief, and learning to trust yourself again when life feels unfamiliar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n