I have a confession. The smallness of my daily life often gnaws at me. Why am I not doing more, experiencing more, or connecting with more people? I frequently feel confined to these monotonous, tethered days, overwhelmed by my endless responsibilities to my beloved yet burdensome children. They consume my time, attention, and energy until there’s barely anything left for myself.
How I yearn to be out in the world again. I remember walking home from the hospital just four days after having my first child—a C-section, no less—taking ten-minute intervals to cover each block. Yet, I still ventured out. A week later, I pushed my sleek stroller over a mile to Walnut Street, the vibrant heart of the town. My weary body trudged towards the vibrant chaos of life that once filled me with joy.
Now, getting out of the house with my three young children feels like an ordeal. The effort seems overwhelming: choosing the right outfits for the weather, hunting for six scattered shoes, packing snacks, and encouraging preemptive bathroom trips. I find myself questioning, is it worth it? It used to be a resounding yes; now, a small voice whispers, “Let’s just stay in, just us.” It’s easier some days, and often, I only see those three familiar faces.
I once thrived in bustling cities, commuting daily to the heart of Times Square via subway. I would come home to a tiny shared 300-square-foot apartment in Manhattan, where my windows looked directly into someone else’s. I could step out at any moment for a cupcake, a drink, or simply to embrace the vibrant nightlife—never alone, never bored.
Now, I am anchored to this singular patch of earth, chasing balls or little boys and caring for these small beings. Occasionally, my gaze drifts upward to an airplane overhead, reminding me of my past life as a budding aviation attorney. I reminisce about spontaneous trips to New Hampshire for lunch with my college boyfriend, who was a pilot.