This Christmas, I decided to stay home. I went on maternity leave — for my projects. My body wants it too. Or maybe demands it. It no longer wants entire days in the woods, let alone the desert. That level of discomfort was, until recently, a fundamental part of my life.

Fine. I trade the Amazon for a careful aunt in warm slippers.

After two months of experimentation, I realise that it's not just a matter of mood. It's a matter of structure. It demands precision. Like not answering the phone when I simply can’t. Or limiting how often I go out. Saying no even when it would be much easier to say yes.

I feel a bit like I'm in a monastery. Like strict schedules Sertillanges prescribes for intellectuals. And at times, it drives me mad. Still no epiphany.

Another problem is standards. Let me stay with the maternal metaphor. For example, cars. Most five-door models are designed for two child seats. Once you have three, you cease to exist. No one will tell you that out loud. You just find out that you don't fit.

Now relationships. If I don’t answer certain calls for long enough, one day they stop altogether. Silence has its logic. New relationships rarely grow in this mode. Courtesy requires energy. I put that energy elsewhere.

For example, into outlines and new pages of my manuscript. I pore over them every day from seven in the morning until late evening. When I go out afterward, it shows. I usually just look at the people I'm with and have nothing to say. I've already given everything away at home.

I wonder where this will lead. In a year, I may be gone. Or stronger. There are moments when I hope it never ends. Those moments are becoming more frequent.

The further I settle into this so-called maternity leave, the more I see how the world is built for someone else. For a different number of seats. For a different level of accessibility. For a different kind of woman.

Being myself comes at a cost — logistical, above all.