The large tub, square in the middle of the room, began filling with water. I placed the trinkets I had brought, fragments of seashells from the places I want to hold onto, a long crystal quartz from my mother, a stick of palo santo from the Ojai motel I love, candles, an orange, along the tiled edge like an altar. I added a few drops of vetiver and orange blossom essential oil to the tub.

As I stepped in, I noticed the tall silver building across the way. Mirrored and futuristic. The sun had just come into view, an orange flare spreading outward, caught in the glass and casting golden light into the room. The kind of light that evokes a sense of mysticism and quiet.

The water was hot. I sank into the tub and took it all in: the glow through the window, the small offering to myself I had arranged, the silence of the hotel room that, for one night, belonged entirely to me.

Home was only a few miles away. My partner was there, probably watching the clock, counting down to our toddler’s dinner and bedtime routine. When I booked the hotel the night before, I felt a flash of guilt. Spending the money, leaving him alone for the night.

But I saw a break in our schedule. So I took it.

I had been craving solitude for a long time. The weeks–months even whipped by, and I felt like I was barely keeping up. LA wildfires. Traveling solo with a toddler. Long stretches of parenting alone while my partner worked late. I hadn’t had a moment to catch my breath. I needed space. To breathe. To remember who I was beneath this new identity of Mother.

And motherhood! For all its fullness and the deep contentment, the pure exhaustion!—had also sparked something electric in me. A near-psychotic surge of creative energy. The grasping need to write, to photograph, to make something. Maybe more than ever before.

Which feels…pretty inconvenient. My time has never been more limited. But maybe that’s exactly why it feels so urgent. Every moment is heavy with meaning.

Raising a child has changed my sense of time. The stages move so quickly. I find myself trying to memorize the little mannerisms my son adopts before they evolve. The way he says bebas for bananas. The way he lets out a laugh the second we do, like he’s not sure what’s funny but he’s definitely part of it.

There are days when I feel overwhelmed by the need to go deeper into the parts of myself that have been pushed to the background postpartum. The urge to play creatively or dream up new offerings for my work.

But most days, I have to choose: stay present with my son, or steal a moment for myself. And some days, I get caught in between and do neither very well.

I’ll set up his toys in the other room while I try to respond to emails or write. Then he comes over crying for me, and of course, I go to him. And then I try to start again.

That push and pull of where to land my attention can make me irritable, untethered. When I don’t have space to be all of myself, it feels like the walls of my life are closing in. ​​And I’d be lying if I said I’ve never fantasized about driving far away and starting over.

Even now as I write this piece, in the stolen hour between my son’s bedtime and my own. And in the car while my partner drives…

Which is why this night in a hotel, just a few miles from home, was more than a break. It was a gift. A return. A moment to slow down. To linger in the quiet. To remember the parts of myself I’ve been missing.

It wasn’t a grand escape. It was a small act of devotion to stillness and beauty, to my own inner life.

I ate raspberries slowly, just staring out the window to the streets below, watching people go about their day. I wrote handwritten letters to friends. Which felt a little theatrical, but that was the mood. To give myself space to luxuriate in the all-too-much parts of myself. And it felt good to begin the evening from that place of tactile care and connection and love.

Because that’s what this retreat was really about: slowing down and offering love—to myself by letting my reservoirs rise again, and by extension, to the people in my life. My partner, my son, my friends who give it meaning—and even the people whose paths cross mine, however briefly.

As I get older, and as motherhood continues to transform my life, I’ve realized how essential it is to tend to my relationships with care.

I took a bath when the mood struck, (Which, if you know me, was more than once.) I sat with myself and did a loving-kindness practice. I unpacked the many ornate dresses I’d stuffed into my spontaneously overpacked bag, which had elicited a raised eyebrow from my partner. (‘You know it’s just one night, right?’) I played dress-up and took self-portraits lit by the ambient glow of the city. Then some by candlelight, in nothing at all.