I have a revenge fantasy involving my children. Yes, I go there. When beaten down by teenage dismissiveness, indifference, and contradiction, I think about what I could do to pay them back. Not to hurt them, of course, but make them squirm. Feel the discomfort that I feel. I imagine that I get a job as a barista at the Starbucks closest to their school. I work the popular 8-4 shift and ensure that I am always behind the espresso machine on the days their classes let out early. I learn the favorite drinks of all their friends and offer them a loud sushi-bar welcome as they burst through the door. When I make their orders, I personalize each one by carving their initials into the foam of their pumpkin lattes or drizzling them in caramel sauce over their venti macchiatos. And as they leave, I wave goodbye and chime all sing-song, “Catch ‘ya on the flip-side,” while my kids look on in horror.

I am embarrassed by this admission. For one thing, it’s petty and juvenile. But also, I know not to take this life stage so personally. I know that much of the behavior of my teenagers results from their ongoing attempt to separate from me. To individuate. A process that demands they question everything I say, turn a deaf ear to my ancient reminders, and vigilantly defend their need for privacy. At a school function last month, a guidance counselor suggested to parents that we limit social media for our sophomores and encourage them to do other enjoyable things like, say, go for a cup of coffee with their parents. At which point the packed room erupted with laughter, all of us musing, if only. My kids don’t want cappuccino hang-time with me, they want their space. And frankly, I do, too.

You see, the more I watch them claim their lives as their own, the more I want to reclaim mine. Not because they are pulling away, but because as they do, I am reminded that while our family exists as a whole, I am a unique soul with individual purpose. After years and years of hunkering down to nest, nurture, advocate, inspire, guide, support, and create ritual, I’m kinda done with the greater good. I need a virgin beach. I need acres of quiet. I need the room to find me again.

When I look back on my relationship to actual space, it’s not something I’ve actively pursued in my life. Despite loving wide open expanses absent of human existence, I never needed a lot of it. I grew up in a tiny house. I set off on my own at a young age and always chose to live in relatively tight quarters. I am drawn to urban sprawl. Organized chaos. Dense, vibrant neighborhoods that make me feel safe by virtue of their compactness. But now, as my children grow in size and personality, my once safe haven feels like it might explode from our combined selves. As if the giant bubble containing us could swell so big it might actually burst through the seams and destroy our home altogether. Suddenly, space means everything.

I’m not alone either. My husband has started looking at real estate in places like Utah and Iceland, imagining himself sitting on the porch of a sprawling ranch without a neighbor in sight. My daughter presses for a local level jump by sending me MSL listings for mini-mansions replete with home theaters and gyms and personal bathrooms. My son says he’ll buy an epic upgrade when he’s a YouTube star or a successful surgeon and that, of course, I can live in his swank basement. We all want more room. And we all have our fantasies. It’s just that mine, I realize, isn’t about dimension. Not literally, anyway. My space issue is about possession. Of self. Of once again taking up room outside the collective. Back to me before middle age, and kids, and marriage. Back all the way to being a teenager warring with her parents in a Hail Mary attempt to be seen as unique. Back to a girl determined to hold space in the world.