Raising a small child as a woman while travelling 10 months out

Host: The airport terminal was quiet, its halls washed in the dim blue of early morning. Planes glided past the windows like ghosts, their lights blinking through the fog. The intercom whispered flight numbers in a language of departure.

Jack sat by the gate, a passport open on his lap, the edges of his ticket curled from use. Jeeny walked slowly beside him, her suitcase rolling, heels clicking against the tile, her eyes tired, yet alive with a quiet resolve.

The quote — spoken once by Lara St. John, the violinist who had lived from stage to stage, country to country — hung in the air, like a confession whispered to the clouds:
“Raising a small child as a woman while travelling 10 months out of the year would, I believe, be something I would not be able or even want to do, although with the amazing example of Leila, I am no longer so sure.”

Jeeny set her suitcase down, folded her arms, and looked at him.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it costs to pursue a dream, Jack? The parts of life you have to sacrifice to keep it alive?”

Jack: “Every day. But I’ve always believed it’s a trade, not a tragedy. You give up the ordinary to live the extraordinary.”

Host: A plane roared in the distance, its sound like a heart beating for those who still dared to chase.

Jeeny: “And what if the extraordinary is what keeps you from being human? Lara St. John admits that motherhood terrifies her because her career has become her child. But when she saw Leila, another woman who balanced both — the art and the life — she began to doubt her own limits. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s evolution.”

Jack: “No, that’s confusion. You can’t have both — not fully. The world doesn’t let you. Touring ten months a year? Airports, hotels, rehearsals — that’s not a life, that’s a loop. Add a child into that, and you’re just splitting yourself in two. Something — or someone — will lose.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point — that life isn’t about balance, it’s about belief. Look at Leila — she didn’t wait for the world to make room. She made it. She’s proof that the roles we think contradict each other can actually complete each other.”

Host: The sunlight broke through the glass wall, falling in long ribbons across the floor. Dust floated, catching the light like tiny stars.

Jack: “You sound like you want to believe in that — but you don’t live it. You travel, you work, you say you’ll settle ‘next year.’ But next year never comes, does it?”

Jeeny: “You think I haven’t thought about that? Every time I see a mother in an airport, rocking her baby while checking her boarding pass, I wonder if I could do it. Part of me fears it, part of me aches for it. But then I remember — fear isn’t a sign you can’t; it’s a sign you’re about to grow.”

Host: Jack looked at her — the way she spoke, the softness of it, the edge beneath it. He took a sip from his coffee, the steam curling like a question he couldn’t ask aloud.

Jack: “So you think ambition and motherhood can coexist?”

Jeeny: “Not easily. But beauty rarely is. The problem is that people still think a woman must choose between creation and care, as if they aren’t the same act. Every song, every child, every idea — they’re all births of different kinds.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic, but reality doesn’t care for metaphors. I’ve seen it — women in orchestras who left because the touring schedule broke their bodies, their families. They didn’t just pause; they were erased.”

Jeeny: “That’s not choice, Jack — that’s punishment. And that’s the world’s fault, not theirs. When Lara says she’s ‘no longer so sure,’ it’s because she’s finally seeing that limitations were written for her by others. Maybe Leila’s example didn’t change what’s possible — it just reminded her that it always was.”

Host: The announcement for a flight echoed through the terminal — “Boarding for Gate 12.” A child’s laughter carried through the air, mixing with the sound of wheels, voices, time.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? If a man had said that quote, it would’ve sounded like humility. But because it’s a woman, it sounds like conflict. She’s not allowed to hesitate — she has to prove she can do both or be judged for whichever she chooses.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the weight of expectation — invisible, but constant. Yet it’s also the source of strength. That’s what I love about Lara’s honesty — she admits her fear and still leaves space for change. That’s courage, Jack — not certainty, but curiosity.”

Host: The light shifted, the airport speakers fell silent, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the wind through the open doors.

Jack: “You think she’ll ever have a child?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe she’ll mother her music instead — her audience, her students, her legacy. Not all nurturing looks like a cradle, Jack. Some of it looks like a stage.”

Host: He leaned back, his expression softening, the edges of his skepticism melting into wonder.

Jack: “Funny. You make it sound like love and ambition are just two languages for the same longing.”

Jeeny: “They are. Both are about continuation — something that outlives you. Whether it’s a child or a song, it’s the same instinct: to leave something that breathes after you’re gone.”

Host: The sun had risen fully now, painting the glass in amber, casting their faces in warm light. The air was thick with that strange emotion that comes with departure — grief, anticipation, and freedom in the same breath.

Jack: “You’d make a good mother, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a good father — if you ever let yourself stay.”

Host: They both laughed, softly, sincerely, the kind of laughter that reveals, not hides.

The intercom called again. Jeeny lifted her bag, adjusted her scarf, and smiled.

Jeeny: “Maybe one day, we’ll stop calling it a choice and start calling it a continuum. Maybe that’s what Leila showed her — that the extraordinary doesn’t replace the ordinary. It includes it.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what it means to be truly alive — to carry both, without apology.”

Host: The plane engines roared, swelling into a crescendo. The light flared, reflected in the glass, and for a moment, the airport felt like a cathedral — a place not of goodbyes, but of becomings.

As Jeeny walked toward her gate, the sun caught her silhouette, gold against the silver floor — a woman still in motion, still uncertain, and therefore, still becoming.

And Jack, watching her go, realized that maybe uncertainty — that space between dream and life — is where truth quietly waits.