by Kat Gang

The first time I zipped myself back into a floor-length gown, it felt strangely theatrical.

Not because I was about to walk onstage. I had done that hundreds of times before.

It was because, for nearly a decade, my body had belonged to other people.

For years, it had been a landscape of pregnancy, nursing, carrying sleeping children from the car, crouching to tie tiny shoes, wiping tiny butts, balancing toddlers on one hip while stirring Kraft Mac and cheese with the other hand. My closet reflected that life: washable fabrics, nursing tops, practical shoes, pockets full of snacks and Band-Aids. Sequins gave way to spit-up cloths. High heels became sneakers.

I had waited a long time to have children. By the time they arrived, I had already spent nearly twenty years building the career I had dreamed about. I was singing jazz in New York, performing the music I loved with musicians I admired. How amazing is that?!  I wasn’t leaving because I had failed to establish myself. I left because I had accomplished the one thing that mattered enough to make me willingly step away.

I wanted to be there.

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