When we landed in Spain, I thought I knew what the hard part would be: the paperwork, the language, finding a decent school for my kids. It turned out to be none of those.
One afternoon, not long after we arrived, I took my son to the beach. He spotted a group of dolphins close to shore and started shouting before I could even take it in. His excitement was pure: loud, physical, alive. I just stood there, half smiling, half stunned by the thought that somewhere along the line I had started believing that moments of pure wonder and awe weren’t really meant for me anymore.
That’s the thing no one says out loud about motherhood. You don’t stop wanting adventure; you just learn it’s no longer encouraged. You’re meant to provide stability now — the constant background hum that keeps everything running smoothly.
Before having children, I lived abroad and traveled widely. I had explored more than 50 countries and always thought of myself as someone who was comfortable with change. But when I became a mother, something shifted. I started receiving the message, subtle but persistent, that the responsible thing to do now was to stay put. I didn’t stop wanting to explore; I just started to question whether I was allowed to.
