I stretched my arms up over my head, interlocking my fingers, I bent my elbows, and arched back. I held an invisible axe and felt a fire burning between my shoulder blades. With an “ah!” I swung my arms forward and down between my legs, cutting through the air. It felt good. I tried it again. And again. Faster and faster, until I cut through the pit in my stomach. A blaze of rage burst up through my chest and head. A growl slipped out with my heavy breaths.

I’ve been having the fairly standard existential crisis faced by most new moms I know. To be honest, I’ve had a few of them in the last few years. How long do I want to stay home with my kids? What example am I setting for them if I give up on pursuing my personal goals?

As I worked through a few more yoga poses from the Solar Plexus chapter in the book Wheels of Life, I meditated on my path forward. What do I desire? How do I want to spend my time? What is my purpose? What do I contribute to the world? What motivates me? What do I not only enjoy, but also excel at?

What gives me that spark of excitement that has been missing from my life for so long?

My personal goals feel divided into two categories: professional and parenting. I have a unique gift for communicating with struggling students and their parents. As a teacher, I felt most deeply fulfilled when I was able to “unlock” students who stonewalled everyone else. I truly believe that all students are capable of learning and that everyone has a valuable purpose. Of course, I can help my own children uncover their purposes, but I suspect they won’t need me 24/7 for that. I want my children to feel loved, supported, and confident in their abilities. I also want them to be intrinsically motivated to learn and grow independently. Can I achieve both my professional and my parenting goals? Perhaps they’re not at odds.

I need to be real with myself. Anxiety is at the root of why I have resisted moving forward with my career.

I am terrified of messing up as a mom by making the wrong choices for the care of my children. I’ve had trusted friends and family members tell me that my children need to be in daycare by age one, and others tell me that I’m definitely doing the right thing by staying home with them for as long as possible.

The research on attachment is complex. Whether daycare or preschool is harmful or beneficial is dependent on so many interconnected factors, like parental involvement and mental health, socioeconomic status, and the needs of each unique child. For a long time, I felt emotionally incapable of leaving my children with someone outside of my family, despite knowing so many kids who turned out perfectly fine with outside care — despite having been that outside care for hundreds of families.

No matter what I choose to do as a parent, I’ll be messing it up by somebody’s standards. What matters is that I’m doing what’s right for me and my family, and confidently owning my choices. And I need to remind myself that what’s right can evolve as we shift and grow. It is my responsibility to work towards the life I crave. It’s my responsibility to figure out what it is that I crave.

I see several potential futures, like trails branching off my current path through the woods. If I do nothing, I can stay on this fairly simple straight path. It would be easy. The way is safe and clear, albeit a bit dull. I see another path that curves around a bend. From where I stand, it looks different, but not necessarily more challenging than my current path.

But I’ve been feeling the siren call of an uneven trail that twists uphill into the darkness. Branches, rocks, and roots clutter the path, and I can’t help but wonder at the view from above the trees. I can’t help but wonder what further heights I might see from up there.

—

Back in 2019, I was hiking up a mountain with some dear friends. Our goal was the highest tower of the Great Wall of China. This section of the Great Wall was far from the touristy areas and the trail was rough and unclearly marked. We had some vague instructions from a local Chinese friend, but figured we couldn’t go wrong if we simply moved up. The wall visibly snaked along the peaks above us.

We left later than intended, and it began to drizzle as the afternoon wore on. Underestimating the difficulty of the terrain, and figuring it would be better for the forecasted rainy conditions, I had opted for hiking sandals instead of closed-toe shoes. Hours into the hike, as we neared the top, the rocks got bigger, and the obscured sun dipped lower. I gashed the side of my exposed foot on a sharp rock. But the top was so near, I just slapped a bandaid on it and powered on. Pain is easier to endure with a goal in sight.

We reached the summit, only to find ourselves nearly eye level with the Great Wall, but separated by another valley. The only way there would require hiking back down into the thick of the forest, and then up again.

It would take at least another hour.

We stopped to clean my wound and enjoy the view. The rural village we started from was tiny below us, and a sea of trees on rolling hills surrounded it. It was lovely, but it wasn’t our final destination. We had to move on before darkness fell.

I’ve been sitting on a summit like that for too long — Nursing my wounds and feeling like there is nowhere else to go. Having children was my primary childhood dream, and I’ve achieved that. But it wasn’t my only ambition. Perhaps there is a parallel peak to reach with an even greater reward, and my children can come along for the journey. I’ve been feeling like a bird caged by parenthood, when the reality is that I’m caged only by self-imposed limitations.

We did eventually make it to the top of the Great Wall, just in time to witness the most magnificently perfect sunset. Snuggled up in sleeping bags, perched on the roof of a tumbling ancient tower, we watched the sky darken and the lights of distant towns blink on below us. And then, after a cold, restless night huddled into a corner of the ruins, we had to hike on.

Such is life.

We have the most beautiful moments, and then we need to keep on living. It’s not quite like the movies.

Like the bliss of my daughter looking up at me from my chest in her first moments of life… and then the lack of sleep, the endless food on the floor, the relentless toddler demands for snacks and stories. Day in and day out, it can get hard sometimes to see the bigger picture. My days feel simultaneously momentous and painfully slow. Will this be the moment my baby takes her first steps? Probably not.

In a few weeks when she is properly walking and I’m faced with another ambitious toddler, I’m sure I’ll miss these slightly slower days. My logical side knows that even the cries of, “mama mama mama,” that grate on my nerves are fleeting and special. I am desperate to cherish every giggle, every first. And yet, I’m so intellectually and socially under-stimulated that I feel the twinges of depression pulling my brain down. If not for my own sake, for my children’s sake, I need to take action to prevent falling back into an emotional hole.

—

Back to the beginning now. I finished the yoga and climbed into bed. All that stuff you just read raced through my mind, preventing me from falling asleep. And my husband was snoring. And then the baby woke up.

I nursed her, clenching my fists through the rage that often bubbles up when the milk comes in (thanks, dysphoric milk ejection reflex). Then I remembered that I had heard something about a meteor shower that night. I figured that seeing a shooting star or two might help me feel a teensy bit better about being up until 2:30 AM. I said a prayer, begging for a shooting star to wish upon. Begging for clarity on my path forward. Begging for a sign that I am capable.

Staring up at the night sky through a window, I noticed something odd. The clouds near the horizon seemed to be changing in an unusual way. I wondered if maybe it could be the Northern Lights, but dismissed that almost immediately as wishful thinking. I had missed a big solar flare resulting in locally visible auroras a few weeks (months?) ago and was still sorely disappointed. Seeing the Northern Lights had always been a bucket list item of mine.

But then the odd clouds seemed to be turning greenish.

I rushed into a darker room and waited for my eyes to adjust.

Parts of the sky began to turn pinkish and neon green, and bright white streaks pierced the darkness like spotlights. It was undeniable. I wept at the beauty. I gave myself some private moments to enjoy the blessing, and then I woke up my husband and texted my mom friends who might also happen to be awake.

The sky rippled like the force field it is under a rain of plasma and meteors: our planet protecting us from the awful power of the sun and the brutality of space.

Does a tiny part of me want to believe that my solar plexus chakra exercises and fervent prayers resulted in a solar flare? Sure, that’s probably crazy, but what is life if not the stories we tell ourselves?

I’m the main character of my story, so I might as well keep it interesting.

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