After I published my post last Friday about the difficult phase of mothering I am in, I tossed a book (not about parenting) in my purse (not a diaper bag) and headed to the café down the street (by myself!). To my former, pre-child self this was an ordinary act, but to my current, round-the-clock mama self it was nothing short of monumental. Much to my surprise, in my first outing sans little one, both selves came along.

I was only down the street, but the space and distance I felt from my life was powerfully relieving. I drank tea before it got cold, I sat in a public place feeling relaxed instead of constantly rummaging through a bag of tricks to keep my child quiet, I read a book without pictures or torn pages. I sat there—slightly altered, but almost the same—feeling ready for more ME. Forty minutes and a quarter mile from home wasn’t enough.

And so, I woke up the next morning, strapped on the yoga clothes that were practically my uniform in my past life, and set out to reclaim more of myself. I was excited and comfortable with the idea of leaving Emerson at home for the first time (more than a half hour) until she started to cry and begged to nurse. My husband and I had been bickering as I was trying to leave (horribly poor timing) and in that moment I felt like I was kidding myself for thinking I could take time out to be “me” again.

I stood paralyzed in the doorway, trying to decide between two things that I love so fiercely: my child, and myself.

I finally made it to the car, but sat in my seat with the door ajar for seven minutes, tears welling, before I finally realized that tears or not (on Emerson’s part, or mine) my need for space was still there. Leaving now was exactly what this was all about—no longer ignoring my own needs. Put my oxygen mask on first, I reminded myself.

So I went. I felt nervous until I turned off of our street. And then suddenly, as I made my way down the mountain, autumn leaves flashing past me, adult music reminding me of freedom, I became myself again. Just like that. After forty-three weeks of carrying Emerson inside me, and sixteen months (two weeks and two days) of carrying Emerson on my hip, I felt that old self that I feared was lost forever.

When I finally made it to the yoga studio and spread open my mat I was afraid that this “new old” feeling wouldn’t last. Tears once again welled in my eyes as I poured my story out to the instructor….leaving my child for the first time….having left my yoga practice for so long….not knowing what my body was capable of after giving birth. She understood. She was a mother.

And then, music began to fill the room with the soft wooden floor. It was the very album I had listened to on repeat many years ago. And my body responded. It opened. It called me home. I moved through the poses gracefully, as if dancing—inhale, arms up, I’m okay…exhale, forward fold, I am still me…inhale, lunge, I can do this…exhale, chaturanga, I am strong. It was as if no time had passed.

On that morning, in that studio, by myself, everything was the same, but different. It all made sense to me…finally…as I bowed my head and held my hands in front of my heart.

I know I’ll get lost again, for I am still a mother, but at least now I know my way back home.