I have been in exile for over a decade. In fact, it was nine days from today, eleven years ago, that I found out I would be a mother for the first time.
Exile, at least for me, was a natural result of choosing motherhood. I spent the first twenty-nine years of my life living for myself, soaking up as much of my limited world as I could before willingly committing my life to nourishing another. When my firstborn came along, the landscape no longer seemed familiar.
Maybe it was bleary-eyed exhaustion that clouded my vision. Maybe it was a tinge of longing for my old life, at least in those first few weeks. All I knew was that, suddenly, there was no time for dinners with friends. There was no time for late-night excursions with my husband and three-o’clock-in-the-morning breakfasts on the weekends just because we could. There was no time to lose myself in a good book for hours on end. There was no time to write.
I’m coming out of exile. I can feel it. My eyes are opening. The fog is lifting. My family is thriving, and I am writing.