There was an era in my life when I didn’t have a romantic partner or kids, and time stretched out before me like an endless road. Time was completely — and blissfully — my own. I took 10-mile runs along the lakefront as the sun was going down, because back then I could simply run 10 miles, and why not do that? I bought bananas one or two at a time and often ate dinner perched on the edge of my bed, watching TV. I went to the movies by myself and didn’t share my popcorn.

Nights were wide open, and sometimes painfully quiet. I had friends, a cat, a successful, fulfilling career, but I ached for more. Little did I know that this was my golden era for free/me time.

Fast forward to today, and I still have friends, two cats, a successful and fulfilling (different) career, as well as a life partner, a house, and two incredible sons. The thing I miss most from those days (other than the body that could run 10 miles without a second thought) is time.

I always hoped I’d have a family, and I’m grateful luck and fate have found me here, but for so many years, there have been precious few moments of my own time. Babies and young kids have a way of taking up every moment in the day, like the foam insulation that you spray into spaces, and it expands to fill even the tiniest crevice. There’s no room for anything else, and it’s exhausting and sometimes suffocating.

Now we are at a stage of parenting where I’m getting back a little room on the edges. My boys don’t need me like they used to. I am a recovering perfectionist and care less about many things (shoutout to @justbeingmelani for creating the We Do Not Care Club on IG, IYKYK). At the same time, I’m starting to reclaim time, and I’m fiercely protective of it. Most mornings, before anyone else is awake, I sneak downstairs to the basement to exercise and lift weights. It’s not glamorous. But it’s quiet. It’s mine. And more than anything, it’s enough.

Lifting has become more than a workout. It’s a form of meditation. A way to feel strong, steady, and rooted in a body that has carried so much joy, anxiety, babies, grief. I’m not chasing a new version of myself. I’m trying to take care of the one who’s already here.

There was a time when I worked out to change how I looked. Now I move because it reminds me I’m still here, still strong, still allowed to take up space, even in a life filled with people I love deeply. I also find it a time to be grateful for my body, with all its perceived flaws. There are several people I love who are facing medical crises, and while I pray for successful treatments and their full recoveries, I know my health is something I shouldn’t take for granted.

Most days, I wake up with a sense of purpose, and I’m excited for my time alone and celebrating new milestones in my home gym. But there are mornings when the world seems too much, and I’m so tempted to hit the snooze or fire up a social media site and self-flagellate at the state of the world. Sometimes I give in to that urge, but more often, when the doubt creeps in, I turn to a metta meditation to get me back on track.

I’ve written before about this meditation practice, also known as loving-kindness meditation, and it’s deceptively simple. You begin with the phrases:

May I be healthy.

May I be safe.

May I be happy.

May I live with ease.

Begin by thinking about yourself, then someone you are close to, and ultimately, others you are not close to (maybe even people you don’t understand or find problematic,) and eventually, sending that loving-kindness out into the world. I first learned about this technique from meditation pioneer and teacher Sharon Salzberg. While I’m guessing it wasn’t intended as a way to motivate hesitant morning exercisers, it almost always works for me, and it feels like freedom.

This isn’t the same kind of freedom I had in my twenties, but it’s a richer one, forged by love, loss, endurance, and a deeper knowing of what it costs to make space for yourself. These days, time doesn’t stretch out like an endless road; it appears in small pockets, tucked between drop-offs and deadlines. But I’ll take it. I’ll guard it. I’ll lift, I’ll breathe, I’ll whisper my little morning prayer and mean it.

And then I gratefully do the next right thing, one rep, one breath, one reclaimed moment at a time. I’m not chasing a new version of myself. I’m trying to take care of the one who’s already here.