Me time. That's what he called it, my children's father. I was 19 when we married, and he needed Me Time. Although I'd never heard of this concept, I believed he needed it and that I did not.
By 26, I still didn't "need" me time — but going to college gave me space I'd never had. Being away from my family on school days forced me to figure out what I wanted and needed. What would I eat with no one else's preferences to guide me? Where to hang out and study between classes? I chose to invest those hours in my education and in my future, even when it meant not doing some of the mothering that previously filled my days. The me time was justifiable, as long as it was used for something important like education.
By 38, I needed me time but never took it. Too much caregiving. Too much conflict and jealousy. Too many failed attempts at conflict resolution. I felt controlled and disconnected from my people. Disconnected from me. I needed me time but taking it felt impossible. Eventually, I chose to leave.
The end of that relationship gifted me many lessons and excitement about finally being single for the few remaining years the children lived at home. Although I had no idea how I'd afford it, I promised them no more moves, and I meant it. We would live here in Minneapolis until they finished high school — just me, the two of them, and the cat.
A few weeks later, I fell in love with The Beautiful One. Neither of us was looking for it. We'd individually chosen to forgo romantic commitment in pursuit of our respective intentions — her to nursing school, me to the children and work. We didn't see us coming and were honestly kind of mad about it, but we accepted the invitation.
The Beautiful One and I lived very different lives before we became us — two complicated halves of a magical puzzle that took nearly 40 years for the universe to solve. Codependency I'd worked on for decades shapeshifted into shiny new forms, and she wasn't open to any of them. The first time she went back to Tennessee, she asked if I was excited to have some alone time with her gone and the children at school.
"No. Why would I be excited to be away from my people? I mean, I'll use the time to get shit done, but no, I'd rather have you all here."
I want to say I replied that way out of fear she would feel unwanted or unloved, that her old wounds might be activated by me enjoying time away from her and the children. It was worse than that. I felt lost without them. The rhythms of my days were crafted around them. I didn't want to feed myself. I felt lost and unproductive. I realized I'd been distracted by love and lost touch with my friends, hobbies, and desires.
I'd lost touch with myself.
As I write my way to the end of this piece, what's clear is that the space between my last relationship and this one wasn't enough for me to fully reconnect with myself. I'd sacrificed some of my favorite parts to keep the peace, to be "good enough" to get my former spouse to act right. The six weeks between the end of that relationship and the beginning of this one were not enough time to heal, so I dragged a bunch of codependent bullshit in and dropped it at the altar of my newly blended family.
I'd forgotten that it's okay to be me. The one who needs space to connect with the magical word place. The one who listens to music or stories while cleaning the house. The one who is deep in thought while cooking or washing dishes or weeding the garden if nobody talks to me. The one who gets lost in books, naps, and conversations with strangers as if I have nowhere else to be.
I'd forgotten that I love me time.
The Beautiful One knew better, I suspect, but was kind enough to leave me alone with my survival strategies. She trusted that if our relationship felt safe enough, I'd find my way back to myself. She was right. Here I am.
Twelve years later, I've learned that it's the quiet times I covet the most.
The quiet times are when my brain comes to life. It's when I best tend to my body. It's when my relationships thrive. When it's quiet, I take the best care of my home, finances, and schoolwork. In the quiet times, I am the best dog mom I know how to be.
The challenge, of course, is that little about this time in my life is quiet. The visits and calls and emails and medical appointments and errands to support my mother who lives nearby. Our dogs bark to alert me about the comings and goings of the murderous orange cat, the neighbors, and anyone else who dares cast a shadow on our strip of sidewalk. Television and construction sounds and the constant alerts that light up my phone. It’s a lot.
No matter how far from all of this I might travel, even the ringing in my ears persists.
It's not enough to wait for life to deliver quiet times. I have to create them.
A few years ago, we took a break from daily life and sat on the beach for seven days. No excursions, no adventure. Just day after day of cooking simple meals in our little rental, sitting silently on the beach, and playing in the sea. I didn't have to vacation alone to get quiet time. This is one of the gifts of so many years together. Most of our stories have been shared, and the questions answered.
She no longer gets nervous when I'm quiet.
I no longer use her to fill in missing pieces of my identity.
Over breakfast mid-week, I told her that I sometimes hear stories about writers who go alone to a cabin in the woods or a condo near the sea or even a hotel room near home to work on a project. I said I didn't use to understand it, but now I do. Work, school, caregiving, dogs, home, and relationships fill the quiet times. It felt like a breakthrough that I could not only recognize but dare to share this idea. To my relief, she understood.
Life doesn't lend itself to a lot of beach time right now, so the work at hand is to create quiet times in the chaotic storm of life. I'm drinking tea in the backyard every morning, and I've decided to reserve that time for reading, writing, or just sitting there. No mindless scrolling. Once this quiet space is solid, I'll add another one and see how it feels. I'll see how I feel — because that's what I'm centering in my life now.
This is the work — finding your way back to yourself after years of losing pieces of who you are to keep the peace, to keep others comfortable, to keep going. If you want a place to do it with support, I'm here.
