An Unexpected Upside Of Divorce? Scheduled Alone Time

The first night my kids went to their dad’s house, I sat on the couch and sobbed, scrolling through years of photos and videos on my phone. The silence was deafening, the absence unbearable. I didn’t know what to do if I couldn’t tuck them into bed, read to them, be there in the middle of the night if they woke up with nightmares or illness. Every part of me ached to have them back. But beneath the grief, something else flickered: relief.

For the first time in over a decade of parenting, I was completely, unequivocally alone. No bedtime routines, no midnight wake-ups, no arguments over screen-time or who gets to sit in the front of the car this time. And then came the guilt, swift and punishing. What kind of mother enjoys time away from her kids under the circumstances of divorce?

Before I separated from my ex, I rarely had time to myself. I was the default parent, the stay-at-home mom. If I left the house alone, it was for a dentist appointment. Rare grocery trips without them were framed as little vacations. Even when I longed for a real break, it came at a cost: resentment, guilt, a sense that I was shirking something sacred.

Motherhood, after all, is supposed to be all-consuming. That’s what the world kept telling me. The cultural script goes like this: a good mother is selfless, always present, always self-sacrificial. Putting her children first means she forsakes her identity as a person. She never wants time away, and if she gets it, she better miss her kids every minute.

But divorce forced me to rewrite the script. It handed me something I never had before: regular, scheduled time without my children. At first, it felt like I was being torn in half. Then, a glimmer of freedom returned. I wasn’t just missing them; I was also discovering parts of myself I had buried for years.

Although my story is shaped by divorce, this truth reaches far beyond family structure. For any parent who has ever felt ashamed for needing time alone, whether it’s a solo night, a weekend away, or a dinner out with friends—it doesn’t matter how your time is carved out. What matters is that we stop seeing our need for it as a weakness.

It was disorienting to hold two opposing truths in one body. But as the weeks passed, something shifted. I noticed that when my kids returned, I was calmer, more patient. I listened better. I wasn’t tapping out mid-conversation because I was stretched too thin. I started to realize that the space – painful as it sometimes was – didn’t make me a worse mom. It made me a better one. It also made me a better, more present friend. It allowed me the rest and mental space to focus on my work in a meaningful and rewarding way.

Showing up for your kids doesn’t mean erasing yourself. Wanting space doesn’t mean you love them any less. It means you’re a full person with needs and honoring those needs doesn’t detract from your parenting. It deepens it.

Once I began unpacking the guilt, I saw how much of it wasn’t mine to carry. So much of motherhood is shaped by unrealistic and outdated expectations. Dads who travel for work or go golfing on weekends are seen as normal. Moms who do the same? Selfish and neglectful. If we even think about wanting time alone, we’re made to feel like traitors to the maternal ideal.

I’ve found that these days at their dad’s let me come back to my children with more capacity. In the time I’ve reclaimed, I’ve found clarity. I’ve returned to hobbies, and had quiet moments of reflection that help me parent with more intention. I’ve had mornings where I woke up and drank coffee while it was still hot, and evenings when I remembered I exist as a person outside of it all.

This truth doesn’t only belong to co-parents. It belongs to the exhausted mom married to a partner who works late. To the solo parent with a weekend sitter. To the moms in the thick of it who fantasize about checking into a hotel alone for 48 hours.

Now, when I say goodbye to my kids, the ache is still there, but I no longer see my need for space as a betrayal of my sacred role as their mother. We don’t serve our kids by disappearing into them. We serve them by showing up whole.

Molly Wadzeck is a freelance writer and mother of three. Born and raised in Waco, Texas, she moved to the Finger Lakes region of New York, where she worked in animal rescue and welfare for many years. She writes essays and poems about feminism, mental health, parenting, pop culture, and politics. She is usually late because she stopped to pet a dog. She tweets at @mwadzeckkraus.