The Struggles of Juggling Work and Motherhood: A Rant
There are rules that come with being a woman. They are never written down, never agreed upon, yet somehow endlessly enforced. You are expected to know them instinctively, to follow them gracefully, and to adjust the moment they change. And they do change—constantly. What was acceptable yesterday is selfish today. What is praised in one room is condemned in another.
For seven years I worked in a male-dominated world, a place where dedication was measured in silence and sacrifice. Where taking a day off to care for a sick child felt like a confession of weakness. Where pregnancy was treated like a poor career choice, and a “bad womanly day” was an unspoken liability. You learn to harden yourself in spaces like that. You learn to carry guilt quietly. And even when you leave, it never really leaves you. It settles in your bones.
This week alone, I have been called a bad mother twice.
Once, because I went to work while my son had a minor dental operation. He was safe. He was with someone he loves, someone who has helped raise him, someone he trusts completely—his stepfather. Yet somehow, that wasn’t enough. I noticed, though, that his biological father was not called a bad parent for not being there. Funny how that judgment has such a specific target.
The second time was because I refused to allow my son to spiral into chaos. Because I said no. Because I held a boundary while he screamed and cried for over an hour, furious at the simple fact that he didn’t get his way. When I finally put him in time-out, I was told I was breaking his spirit.
Breaking his spirit.
No—by all means, I am strict. I am hard on my children. Not because I don’t love them, but because I love them enough to raise them into people who can exist in the world without becoming a burden to it. I don’t want bratty children. I don’t want children people dread being around. And yes, people love to say, “Then maybe those aren’t the people you should be around.” No. That’s not the point. The point is: raise your child so they are not that child.
And then there is work.
How, exactly, am I supposed to take another family responsibility day when I’ve already had to take time off three weeks in a row? How do you explain that to a system that doesn’t care about context—only patterns? I can already see the HR report in my mind: absences highlighted, trends compared, quiet observations being made. So I go to work. Because bills don’t pay themselves. Because food, school, stability—those things require money.
And then I get reprimanded for not being with my child.
So tell me—where do we win?
Do I keep taking leave and become “unreliable,” “undedicated,” the woman who’s falling behind, making mistakes, losing momentum? Or do I focus on the job that keeps the lights on, knowing my children are safe because I made sure they were—and accept the guilt that comes with that too?
At work, the KPIs must be perfect. At home, the parenting must be flawless. One hundred percent everywhere, at all times. No cracks allowed.
And somewhere in all of this, I am disappearing.
I am frustrated. I am burned out. I am angry. And I am trying—so hard—to do my best. To not drop the ball at work. To not fail my children. To not lose myself completely.
But when do I get to remember how to be a person again? When do I get to remember how to be me?
Because right now, I don’t need advice. I don’t need judgment. I need one day.
One day to forget work. One day to forget kids. One day to forget boyfriends and expectations and roles.
Just one day to find myself again.
