Motherhood wasn’t in my plan book. Unlike women who bubble with excitement thinking about swollen bellies and birthing babies, I was consumed with myself.

I guess you could say I lived a bit recklessly. I drank more than I should have, gave monogamy a run for its money, pushed my luck with wildlife, and never tied myself to one place (or one person) for too long. Five years ago, as I sat on top of a peak in the middle of the Alaskan bush, I had my very own Christopher McCandless moment. I’ve never felt so alone; so hollow.

This nomadic adventuring—of meeting new people and seeing new places—had come to an end for me. I could no longer suck the marrow of these experiences. I was lost.

I left a good man back home; the only man that has ever given me enough room to breathe without holding it against me later on. No, he would kiss me, tuck a few chicken-scratched love letters in my bag, and then send me into my self induced hurricane.

He was patient. He waited for me longer than I ever deserved. I ended up marrying him.

A month after marrying that good man, I found out I was pregnant.

I wish I could say those two blue lines awakened the mother inside of me, but they didn’t. Instead, I spent much of my pregnancy in tears, selfishly mourning the reckless adventuring that I initially chose to leave. One night, when I was hugely pregnant and overdue, I sat on the couch and stifled sobs of guilt.

My husband lowered himself in front of me and said, “Come back to me. I feel like I’m losing you. This, right here, can be an adventure.”

The effects of one finite decision can leave ripples throughout your life. My heart aches with self loathing that I never wanted this life to begin with; that I wasted so much time resisting becoming the woman I knew I was supposed to be.

All along I was just scared. Scared of being loved. Being happy. Being worthy.

And while I know that adventure and motherhood are not mutually exclusive (in fact, they’re the opposite), I feel so relieved to have bloomed from reckless into responsible.

Today, I flip through photo albums and stare at this radical girl free climbing granite and taking selfies with grizzlies in the background. I know her—she seems familiar—yet she’s a stranger to me. I close my eyes and instantly flashback to midnight boat rides under the Northern lights, casting line, and swapping a bottle back and forth between other hopeless nomads. Suddenly, my eyes are startled open by two little ones sitting doe-eyed in front of me. 

“Did you hear me, mama? Isla pooped in her undies.”

That good man, he was right. This is the adventure I choose.

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