There’s something about getting a text in the group chat that just says, “Pack your bags,” that hits different. Especially when you’re a mom who hasn’t been away from laundry mountain or sticky fingerprints in what feels like 84 years. When my girlfriends and I finally synced our schedules (a miracle), booked flights, and declared it an official girls’ trip, I swear I felt ten pounds lighter instantly.
Guess where? Vegas. I know. The land of glitter, chaos, and questionable decisions made under neon lights. Miami is already wild, but Vegas is like Miami after four espressos. And I love love love it.
It’s been years since I had an entire weekend with my friends—the kind where you can eat dinner after 6 p.m. and no one asks for crayons or extra napkins. The kind where you can actually finish a conversation without a child yelling about who looked at who “mean.” There’s something healing about getting together with the women who knew you before you were “Mom,” who remember your bad bangs phase and still loved you through it.
Of course, preparing for a trip like this is a full production. There’s the packing (which, let’s be honest, means 60% of my suitcase is shoes I won’t wear), the guilt (“Should I even go?”), and the prepping Rex for solo dad duty. He’s capable, but I still find myself leaving ridiculous notes like, “Don’t let them eat cereal for dinner three nights in a row” and “Yes, the dog actually needs water.” He rolls his eyes, I pretend not to notice, and then I leave anyway because mom needs a break.
Once you’re on that plane, though—it’s pure freedom. Something shifts when you’re surrounded by your girlfriends again. You remember the version of yourself who used to dance without worrying about bedtime routines or school lunches. You remember that your laugh can still be loud and ridiculous. You remember you’re a whole person, not just a snack dispenser in yoga pants.
Vegas itself is sensory overload in the best way. The lights, the sounds, the people watching (which could honestly be an Olympic sport). Every corner has something shiny, and somehow every restaurant is the “best” one according to somebody’s cousin. We never do it all, but that’s not the point. The point is the inside jokes, the late-night room service fries, the glittery eyeliner that will haunt me for days after I get home.
Somewhere between dancing in uncomfortable heels and laughing until I cried, I realized how much I missed this version of me—the one who’s still silly, spontaneous, a little loud. The mom part of me never goes away, but it’s nice to let the “just Natalie” part stretch her legs once in a while.
By the time the trip ended, I was half exhausted, half refreshed. I missed the kids like crazy—of course I did—but I also felt… reset. Like I’d refilled a part of myself that had been running on fumes. It’s funny how giving yourself permission to step away, even briefly, makes you come back more present.
When I got home, the boys ran at me like a stampede, sticky and grinning. Rex had survived (barely), and yes, the kitchen looked like a snack explosion, but I didn’t care. I hugged them, dropped my bag, and thought, “Okay, that was worth every glitter-filled minute.”
So yeah, guess where I went? Vegas. But the real answer? I went back to myself for a bit. And maybe that’s a trip every mom should take, wherever she can find it—even if it’s just to the coffee shop alone with a book.