The kind of motherhood that learned to give space

I’m taking five days next week to go to Bali by myself.

Not for a retreat.
Not for a conference.
Not because I’m “burnt out” in the dramatic, falling-apart way that sometimes feels required to justify time away.

I’m going because I need space.
To think.
To ground.
To hear myself again without interruption.
To plan what I want next — for me, and for my business.

When I mentioned this to another mum recently, she smiled warmly and said, “I love that for you.”
Then she paused.
”I couldn’t possibly be away from my kids for that long.”

I nodded. I understood.
And then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not in a defensive way.
Not in a why-can’t-you way.
But in a genuinely curious one.

Why can I?

Why has time away always felt not just okay for me, but important?
Why have I never felt that stepping back made me less connected as a mother — but more regulated, more engaged, more myself?

Sitting with it, I realised something else too: our answers to these questions aren’t about love or commitment. They’re shaped by experience. By nervous systems. By what has felt safe, supported, or possible in our lives.

And for me, the answer goes back further than I first expected.

It’s because I was a step-mum before I was a bio-mum.

In those early years of entering motherhood, my role was very different to the one most women imagine when they picture becoming a mum. My focus wasn’t on being the centre of everything. It was on supporting my husband’s relationship with his children.

And often, that meant stepping aside.

It meant creating space for them to be together — just them.
It meant recognising that my presence, however loving, sometimes changed the very essence of the experience.
It meant understanding that closeness doesn’t always require proximity.

So I became comfortable not being in every moment.

I learned to see motherhood not as one relationship, but many:
– my one-to-one relationship with each child
– my husband’s one-to-one relationship with them
– and the shared dynamic we created together

Each distinct.
Each meaningful.
Each needing room to evolve in its own way.

That perspective quietly shaped me.

And I think this is where something important lives: for some of us, regulation comes through closeness and constant presence. For others, it comes through trust — through knowing the bonds hold even when we step back. Neither is better. They’re simply different ways of being in relationship.

When I later became a bio-mum, that understanding never left.

I’ve never felt that I needed to be the centre of everything. I’ve always known that my daughter and my husband need their own time, their own rhythm, their own way of being together — just as the older two did. And instead of threatening my place, that knowing has given me freedom.

Freedom to step away.
Freedom to let him fully be a father.
Freedom to say, I need space too.

I know my place is real and deeply felt.
My daughter and my husband are absolutely going to miss their mum and wife while I’m gone.

And I don’t see that as something to fix or soften.

Being missed is a sign of connection, not absence.
It’s evidence that the bond exists even when the body isn’t present.
It’s healthy. It’s human. It’s how relationships stretch without breaking.

What I’ve come to understand is that our capacity to step away isn’t a measure of devotion. Some mothers have never had shared care that feels solid enough to lean into. Some have never been shown that relationships can hold when they’re not physically present. Some regulate through proximity, not away from it.

None of that is wrong.

For me, learning early that love could exist in parallel — that bonds could deepen without me being in the middle of them — quietly rewired what felt possible. It taught me to trust the spaces between us, not just the closeness.

I don’t think every mother needs time away.
But I do think every mother deserves the right to ask herself what regulates her — without guilt, comparison, or explanation.

For some, that answer will always be togetherness.
For others, it might include stepping back, going quiet, leaving the room, or boarding a plane alone.

Both can be loving.
Both can be secure.
Both can exist inside a wider, kinder definition of motherhood.

I’m incredibly grateful for the perspective I gained by becoming a step-mum before a bio-mum. This realisation has added another layer of sweetness to this trip.

Not because I need to escape my life.
But because I know my life can hold my leaving — and welcome me back.

And that feels like a quiet, powerful kind of motherhood.