The Weight of Never Enough
Mindset is everything—or at least that's what I keep telling myself as I navigate the delicate balance of my life. Recently, I've been trying to shift my perspective, not because I'm running from reality, but because disappointment seems to follow me at every turn, a constant shadow I can't seem to shake no matter how fast I move or how much I accomplish.
I've written before about meeting others' expectations, always focusing on the adults around me and their intense demands. The weight of their judgment hangs heavy—family members who think I should be more present, friends who believe I should be more available, colleagues who expect unwavering professionalism. But today, something different broke me. My son and daughter, just 6 and 4 years old, looked at me with devastation in their eyes when we couldn't join the other kids at the park after school. Their faces carried that particular kind of childhood disappointment that cuts straight to a mother's heart.
"I have to go back to work," I explained, knowing these words meant nothing to their young minds. How do you explain to children that Mommy's fifteen-minute break is precisely calculated—just enough time to walk to school, pick up my son, return home, set up his snack, and prepare for the next day? Every second counts in this delicate dance of working motherhood. I've memorized exactly how many steps it takes to reach the school, which crossing signals I can't afford to miss, and how to efficiently pack away shoes and backpacks while simultaneously preparing an afternoon snack.
Image Credit: GBRLIFE LLC
The misconceptions about working from home sting the most. People assume my job isn't "real" because I work remotely; their casual dismissals are evident in their tone when they say things like, "Oh, you're so lucky you can just work from home!" They don't see me leaving for the office at dawn, when the world is still dark and quiet, returning just in time for the second half of my day before my son's school begins. They don't understand that I position myself at that door every morning, determined to say goodbye to my son as my husband takes him to school, because these small moments matter. Sometimes these brief goodbyes are all I have to hold onto during long days of back-to-back meetings and endless deadlines. While my daughter sits next to me, or plays in her room while I simultaneously watch her while answering what the project status is.
When afternoon comes, people expect my workday to be done, as if my computer should automatically shut down at 3 PM. But corporate life doesn't bend to convenient schedules, and the reality of global teams means meetings can stretch into evening hours. I can't ask my colleagues to schedule meetings around my children's lives any more than they can ask the same of me. We're all living different stories, walking different paths, trying to make it work in our own ways. My work ethic never wavers—I'm present when needed, stay late when required, and put in the same dedication as any employee, parent or not. The laptop might be on my kitchen table instead of an office desk, but the responsibility weighs just as heavy.
During off-hours, I pour myself into creating memories with my children, trying to compress a full day's worth of love and attention into the precious few hours we have together. Sometimes it's grand adventures that end with them sleeping in the car on the way home, their faces peaceful and content after a day of exploration and fun. Other times, it's simply cuddling together for a movie or sharing bedtime stories on busy days, their small bodies snuggled close as we create our own little bubble of peace in the chaos. And when they finally drift off to sleep, I turn to my small business—my beacon of hope for a different future. Every late night spent building this dream is fueled by the vision of one day being my own boss, of having the flexibility to choose family time over corporate demands. I pour my energy into this side business knowing that each small step brings me closer to the freedom of working for myself, of being able to say "yes" to those afternoon park visits, of attending school events without watching the clock. Even as I promise myself I'll manage time better tomorrow, I know these late nights are investments in a future where I won't have to choose between work and being present for my children's precious moments.
But tomorrow brings its own symphony of chaos—text messages chiming with urgent requests, phone calls demanding immediate attention, my daughter asking for another glass of milk while I'm trying to unmute myself for an important presentation. I find myself wondering how I'll accomplish it all again, how I'll keep all these plates spinning without letting any crash to the ground. I remind myself to be grateful, to see challenges as opportunities, to maintain that positive mindset I'm constantly preaching about. So I maintain the rhythm: laying out clothes the night before, packing lunches with little notes of love tucked inside, placing keys by the door for those early morning office runs.
Meanwhile, my family expresses shock when they hear from me, though they often tune out my voice when I'm actually present. "Oh, you're alive!" they'll joke, not realizing how much those the times I showed up, I moved mountains to be there. Friends criticize my delayed responses, not understanding that by the time I finish work, handle dinner, oversee homework, and complete bedtime routines, I'm often too exhausted to form coherent sentences and have started replying back but forgot to press send, only to see it in draft days or weeks later.
I compress these feelings, push them down deep where they can't interfere with my productivity, because my family needs me to keep moving forward.
Today was different. Watching my son's heart break because he couldn't join his friends at the park, hearing both my children express their hatred for my constant work—it crystallized a painful truth that I've been trying to avoid: I will never be enough.
Not for my children who want more of my time, not for my family who wants more of my attention, not for my friends who want more of my energy, not for my colleagues who want more of my focus. The realization settles like a stone in my stomach, heavy with the weight of all these competing demands.
Still, I hold onto hope that someday they'll understand I gave everything I had, that every calculated minute and missed park visit was part of a larger love story. That they'll see the early mornings and late nights weren't about avoiding them, but about creating a stable foundation for their futures. That they'll recognize how every decision, every sacrifice, every missed moment was weighed carefully against the bigger picture of their wellbeing. That they'll understand I really did try, with every fiber of my being, to be everything for everyone, like the many other mothers out there today that are just like me.
Because sometimes trying, even when it feels like falling short, is the most profound act of love we can offer. And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.
