I was always a We. Born into a Chinese family, I was a We from the start. First, it was my family and I, and later, when I had kids, it was them and me. I thought of myself as We so much that when meetings started with announcing one’s pronouns, I was always tempted to say we, our, ours, referring to myself. My days were dominated by We. We could not go out because one of us was sick. We had to turn right back from a trip to the bookstore because the school called. We made playdates, took road trips, and once feared for our lives when gale-force winds hit while we were sleeping in a treehouse in Hawaii.

I’m a single parent of twin boys, and often people assume that the hardest thing about being a single parent is emotional. You have no one there; you must be lonely. Well, my boys were always sweet to me, even as teenagers; that was not the problem. The hardest thing is being a We all the time, having to manage not just one life but our collective life, relentlessly being on the clock because there was always something else to do, and during downtime, always being on call. Dropping off my sons at college last month, the mental load was even more severe than usual. Two different schools, a hundred miles apart, two sets of schedules and instructions, two goodbyes.

Owen was the first to be dropped off, a week before Sam, which meant that we had Sam to help with everything. He helped attach the Command hooks while I wiped down the furniture, carried packages from the mailroom, and, most of all, kept track of where we parked. When Sam’s turn came, we had only me. To back up, I had asked the boys for an orientation to my life after they leave, and they both exclaimed, “Learn how to follow the GPS!” Well, apparently I didn’t, or not well enough, because when I went to park the car while Sam unpacked, I cursed Siri out for not knowing the difference between Pine Ave and Pine Court, made a dozen illegal U-turns, and arrived back at the dorm an hour later, drenched in sweat.

The school’s orientation programming for Sam was so intense that I barely had time to say goodbye. Maybe they do that so the parents will leave. They whisked them away while distracting us with chips and guacamole under a huge tent. I called Sam over and gave him and quick hug and kiss. “You are great, I love you.”

And just like that, I was an I. Everything looked strange. Now what? I’m an academic, and one of the most valuable skills of an academic is getting ourselves invited to conferences and such. I volunteered to moderate a workshop in town the following week, giving me the excuse to hang around some more, just in case they needed me. Here I was in an Airbnb at the South End of Boston, trying to find food and figure out how to do laundry in a coin-op. It dawned on me that, subconsciously, I might have crafted an interim life that parallels my kids’.

My twin boys, maybe sensing also that the time has come to be an I chose to go to different schools, where they seem to be finding their own footing. They text: “I’ve met so many people already!” O—kay. Me, three nights in a row I went out to dinner on my own. I was walking around the neighborhood when I spotted a sidewalk cafe that looked like it could have been plucked from the streets of Paris. It was only 4:30, but why not?

It was happy hour; I ordered oysters for a buck each, grilled octopus, and a margarita. Shortly after, an older man sat down at the table next to me, also dining alone. “Would you recommend the oysters?” he asked. I would! He was a semi-retired professor of cardiology at that little-known school in Cambridge, and our conversation lasted the whole meal, ranging from epigenetics to politics. It was fun, even wonderful. The following nights, I met a homesick student dining next to me and a server who brought me a lovely glass of wine and asked about the book I was reading. (I’m not one to initiate conversations with strangers.) This was an anomaly, or was the universe launching me as well?

Now I have become a person who attends art fairs and poetry readings. In November, I’ll be at a writing residency in Virginia for almost the entire month. I will try to be a writer in a sea of writers. But as much as I’m excited, I’m intimidated and dubious. Do I even have what it takes to fill the wide-open hours? What if I needed those excuses like laundry and cooking to avoid writing, because as much as I tell myself I want to write, I really can’t?

Then it dawns on me — this must be what being an I feels like, not tethered to my kids’ dreams, successes, or disappointments, just me, and my own fears, anxieties, and unknowns. Am I ready to do that, be an I? And then I remember, I had decided to write this, tell my story, at this very moment.

Maybe I’m already on my way.

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