I'm a Mom, Not a Ghost; Taking Up Space in My Own Life

I finished sewing the button on the skirt. I had only just decided I would a day prior, and it was the small type of act that had me wondering if my life was, in fact, kind of together.

The kids had been playing with their stuffed animals (their “doudous”, the French word we still use for them) in the living room, and my husband was cleaning out the van in preparation for our next vacation. It was the type of thing any functioning family might do on a Saturday afternoon.

I had found the button in the medicine cabinet on my first look, and it matched the floral skirt well enough to satisfy me. It was a skirt I had received for free in a large bundle of hand-me-downs from one of the kind strangers in the online “Buy Nothing” group I had become a part of when we moved back from France. I had marveled at my outfit while driving to the coffee shop this morning – it was the perfect mix of old and new, and I noted the magic of the feeling.

My floral skirt went down to my ankles, covered in giant pink flowers and dark green leaves. It matched my dark green sweater, something I had thrifted a few months ago. And over that, a light pink trench coat bought on sale during my birthday weekend while out with my husband in the rare-as-ever shopping outing. My shoes were purchased at full price from a company I trusted and supported, knowing they would last. I bought them on a whim while out and about just a day or two ago, something I would have never done a year ago without hemming and hawing and seeking permission.

I smiled as I thought about this outfit. So many pieces came together to make something I was really pleased with. My clothes were starting to really feel like me.

Our home was slowly doing the same. I found a plant-themed duvet I loved at IKEA, and I creatively slipped it over the dollar-store cushions and a foam cushion I acquired to create a little reading nook in the living room. I found a place for my books in a sweet cottage-style bookshelf I found on marketplace; I felt so much relief and joy that my treasured books now had a home.

Soft pinks trickled throughout the house, my claim on femininity as the only woman in the home, and I stenciled pink flowers on the black magnetic play space I had painted last fall. Tiled wallpaper (inspired by a trip to Lisbon) now welcomed me when I opened cupboards, and whimsical exercising fruits and vegetables stickered to another cupboard made me laugh.

The house was starting to feel like my home now, not just where my family and I lived.

My job had slowly evolved into a mirror of my preferences and values as well. I became Rachel The Nurse again, the title that filled me with so much pride it nearly rivaled Rachel The Mom.

I had found the work-life balance that provided me with flexibility to be home with my babies, summers mostly off, child-care covered by my parents, and enough time away from being homemaker where I could feel like myself again. I didn’t work more than a few days a week, but I worked with enough efficiently and consistency that co-workers began celebrating me when I arrived - and boohooed when I left.

“It’s my favorite nurse!” one exclaimed this week as I clocked in at one hospital, and my heart would swell. “Oh Rachel, thank goodness you’re here,” another nurse chattered as I arrived with my students for clinicals on an unexpectedly short-staffed unit.

I had been away from the bedside long enough to doubt myself, but now back long enough to feel confident. Comments from colleagues helped solidify my belief in myself.

I still struggled a bit prioritizing my own time and care. Though I aimed to get to a coffeeshop every Sunday for two hours, this was my first time in more than a month.

I crept out of my house, our dogs making more noise than I had the patience for. I heard my toddler open his bedroom door; undoubtedly he was crawling into bed with my husband, and our youngest would do the same before the sun rose.

I clocked a few feelings; I was grateful to leave and have time for myself, yet sad to miss out on morning snuggles and cherished nuclear family time. The thought surprised me, and I noted how just a few months ago I would have been scrambling to leave, feeling like these two hours every Sunday were an escape from my endless duties.

Caring for a home was endless, and parenting small ones felt endless. Neither job was ever really finished; they were open tabs in the brain which I struggled to ever close.

Just a few months ago, my two-hour solo coffee shop date would also have been an escape from feeling unseen - at least a morning away would highlight the challenge it is to do childcare alone. And yet, those feelings had changed too. As I climbed out of bed, my husband encouraged me, “Have fun. Take care of yourself.” And just before leaving, I thought about how I would miss him while I was gone.

The idea struck me, immediately, as if I had just seen an old friend show up at my doorstep unexpectedly. I marveled at it. How different this date was than the exact same day last year, when I was a whisper of myself, drowning in motherhood and responsibilities and diaper changes and feeling completely invisible.

The two hours I had alone on Sundays were filled with chatting with chatgpt, making budgets as if I were a single parent and musing on contacting attorneys.

I felt like a ghost in my own home.

And yet, here I am - not a ghost at all, my presence slowly being stamped on my life with increasing assurance. The text reminders from my sister beckoned me, “Take up space, sis.”

This past year I practiced taking up space, as much space as I would dare. The pink pillows in my home and the stenciled flowers were one way I experimented with my own courage. The thrifted floral skirt and the costly new pink trench coat were experiments, too.

Could there be space for me in our home? In our budget? Could I be brave enough to take up space in my own life?

I started taking up more space in my interactions, encouraged by therapists, friends, family members and even my husband. I started reading about boundaries, a strangely foreign concept to me. I started asking myself, “What does Rachel want?” “How do I feel about this?”

Even my husband started asking me, before he’d answer my query, “Before I tell you what I want to do, what do you want to do?” “Before I tell you what I think about that situation, what do you think?” It stopped the cycle of managing the emotions of others in its tracks, something that I wanted to let go of and was slowly learning to name.

I practiced teaching my toddlers, too. When a child came whining to me about their sibling, I asked them what they thought they should say.

“Please stop, I don’t like that” became an accepted and expected phrase. I taught them to walk away if they used their words and other’s actions still didn’t change. We were slowly learning boundaries together.

“Do you like being chased?” I’d ask Carter, as he’d be crying, running away from our youngest. “No!” he’d say, and I’d advise him to stop running. Just like that, the chase was over.

Big feelings were something we talked about frequently in our household. Our youngest seemed to go through phases of frequent outbursts, and he was going through one now.

In the car yesterday, our oldest said to him, “You had some big feelings yesterday.”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“But all emotions are okay,” the oldest toddler said to the youngest.

My eyes filled with tears as my youngest agreed, and I held my hand over my mouth as I tried not to cackle when he then said, smiling,

“But I’m happy now, like this, see? CHHHEEEEEESSSSSSSEEE!”

I missed them this morning, but I felt more like myself after taking a small break away.

Walking back from the bathroom in the coffee shop, I dropped my purse on the table. I glanced at the tote I brought my laptop in. The two bags were another hilarious combination that verified my style of choice; my purse was made locally, purchased from a family-owned business and was, from my point of view, relatively pricey. It was classically styled; simple, yet beautiful. It would last decades.

My tote, on the other hand, was made with hilarious fabric that displayed animals driving silly vehicles – a Richard Scarry storyboard with mice driving a pencil-car, pigs driving a Pickle vehicle, and a dog driving a sausage on wheels. It was the mix of classic, whimsical and silly that was starting to reveal itself as… me.

Old mixed with new, whimsical combined with classic. Silly yet scholarly, relaxed yet ambitious. Balanced.

I popped my classic, no-nonsense purse over my thrifted sweater and draped my luxurious trench coat over my arm, which lugged my silly tote featuring a cheetah driving a toothbrush-mobile.

It all felt just right.