The Life-Changing Magic of Having a Second Place to Go
The walls were closing in, the Zoom had lost its charm. After a year as a working parent, all I needed was a room of my own.
We’re creeping toward a strange anniversary, the day in March when our governor was the first in the country to close schools, and I felt my blood pressure swelling to a pound at the back of my skull. I’m a freelance writer, and I’ve been patchworking contracts and gigs since my daughter’s birth nearly eight years ago.
Back when she was two months old, I was ready to end the maternity leave I’d given myself and discovered my planned regular writing assignment had evaporated when my editor was laid off. Once I did start landing new gigs, it felt like self-imposed chaos, interviewing sources over the phone while breastfeeding, writing when the baby slept, which was mostly at night or after lunch when my own mind was a fog. We couldn’t afford daycare for two kids, so I’d get the time I wanted with my baby while I worked, while I carved out a new career path for myself.
I was Having It All. I was gripped with a gnawing fear that with any misstep, the work would vanish, and I would disappear into motherhood.
