I’ve been thinking a lot about the expectations we place on people, especially on those who choose to nurture. There’s a particular kind of reverence, almost a SACRED expectation, for people who work with young children, isn’t there? As if the very act of shaping nascent minds should preclude any selfish thought, any flicker of personal ambition that doesn't directly serve the tiny humans. I was one of those people, once. For decades, in fact. An elementary school teacher, dedicated. And then, when my own came along, I became the kind of parent who put everything else aside. And I truly believe I did a good job. A very good job. My children are wonderful, productive adults, and I have no regrets about the time I poured into them. But that doesn’t mean the desire, the *ache*, for something else entirely ever truly vanished. It’s a peculiar thing, this quiet erosion of self when you commit so fully to someone else’s well-being. You become defined by that role, that constant giving, that unwavering presence. And for a long, long time, it felt sufficient. More than sufficient, it felt RIGHT. Noble, even. But underneath all that, there was always this small, persistent voice, like a little mouse gnawing at the foundations. A voice that whispered, "What about *you*?" And it felt like such a betrayal to even entertain it. Such a monstrous, ungrateful thought, to want to leave the very thing you committed your life to, the thing that gave you purpose and identity for so long. Now, looking back from this vantage point — decades removed from sticky fingers and lesson plans and school plays — that small voice is a roar sometimes. And I feel this… this SHAME about it. A deep, abiding shame for having ever wanted to walk away from it all. For having felt trapped, even for a moment, in the beautiful, all-consuming world of tiny humans. It’s not that I didn’t love them, the students, my own children. I did, profoundly. But there was always this sense that *I* was secondary, that my own complex inner world was less important than the simple, immediate needs of others. And now, I wonder if I let that feeling define me for too long. If I missed out on something because I was too afraid to admit that the person who gives so much sometimes, just sometimes, wants to keep a little bit for themselves.