I love my family. I still didn’t want to come home.

“Every year, my husband and I take what we call a “solo week.” The concept is simple: each of us picks a week to travel alone.” Permission To, Chapter 7

---

A week ago, I came home from the first Solo Week I had spent completely alone in three years.

Last year, I went to Whistler with my father, and the year before that, I went to Hawaii with my mother. I loved having that time with each of them.

But my body was craving a week that belonged only to me.

My soul was craving it too.

So I left on a Tuesday for seven days completely on my own. I was scheduled to come home the following Tuesday, the day after Thanksgiving.

On the Monday night before my flight home, I had a mini meltdown.

I did not want to come back.

I usually start packing two days before a flight back home. This time, I waited until 9 p.m. the night before and cried while filling my suitcase.

Then I started panicking about what my feelings meant.

If I’m not ready to return to my family, does that mean something is wrong?

The next morning, I finished packing, boarded my flight and came home.

On the drive home from the airport, I called a friend and told her what had happened. I needed to say it out loud to someone, but I wasn’t even sure I would tell my husband. I didn’t know how he would react, and I didn’t want him to feel hurt.

But I told him that night.

His first words were, “I totally get it.”

He reminded me that, for the first time in three years, I had spent an entire week with no one needing anything from me. My husband and children did not need my physical, mental or emotional attention.

He also pointed out that I had still spoken with them every day. We were in the same time zone, and FaceTime allowed me to remain connected to my children and have time alone with my husband without being responsible for everything that comes with being physically present.

Once he said it that way, my feelings made sense.

Not wanting to come home did not mean I loved my family less. I had simply loved being responsible only for myself, and I wanted a little more time with that version of me.

Sometimes, uncomfortable feelings are not accusations. They are information.

And mine was telling me that I need to find more ways to belong to myself, even when I am home.

Do you recognize yourself in this story?

Your voice belongs here. This space is for listening, together.