Juggling Motherhood and Career: Finding Balance Without Losing Yourself

My bag was packed. My alarm was set. I was ready.

And yet, when it was time to walk out the door, I paused.

Was this worth it? Why was I even going? Was it too late to cancel?

It was too late to cancel. I was heading to New York for a career event I had planned for months—an event that was a big step for the company I’m launching, MyTribe. And yet, I almost set my bag down. I almost stayed home to play with the magnatiles that I normally hate, because the thought of leaving suddenly felt impossible.

I write this now from the train, so yes, I made it. But my heart still tugs toward home, toward a cozy Saturday morning with my family. At the same time, the other half of my heart beats with adrenaline, buzzing with excitement and nerves for the opportunity ahead. Maybe part of the excitement is the rare luxury of 3.5 uninterrupted hours to just sit with my thoughts—a kind of solitude that’s nearly extinct in my life as a mom.

Motherhood has a way of splitting you in two. Some days, it feels like I’m standing on a bridge, one foot planted in my career, the other in motherhood. Most days, I find my footing, shifting my weight back and forth, adjusting with the movement. But today, it didn’t feel like a shift.

It felt like the bridge beneath me disappeared.

Stepping onto that train wasn’t just leaning into work—it felt like a free fall. A drop in my stomach. A flash of all the moments I would miss. My son’s sleepy curls as he woke up. The way he runs toward me, arms wide, when I sit on the floor. The quiet magic of a slow weekend morning.

And yet, here I was, choosing to leave.

Maybe because it was a weekend. Maybe because this wasn’t something I had to do, but something I wanted to do. And that distinction felt like an indictment.

Why does choosing something for myself suddenly feel like proof that I care less about my child?

Modern motherhood asks us to do it all—to be fully present for every moment while also modeling success, ambition, and independence. But what it doesn’t explain is how.

I have worked so hard for my career. I love it. It makes me feel alive, fulfilled, proud. I want my son to grow up seeing that side of me—to know what hard work looks like, to watch me use my brain, to understand that passion is worth pursuing. But there’s no way around it: work takes time. And time spent on one thing is time taken from another.

So, is it worth it?

Should I set my career aside to catch every fleeting moment?

That feeling—what some call mom guilt—often disguises itself as discomfort. The instinct is to make the discomfort disappear, to drop everything and course-correct. But what if it’s not a red flag? What if it’s a green one? A sign that I’m investing in something meaningful, even if it comes at the cost of something else I love?

When I frame it that way, guilt transforms into something else. A simple truth: my career and my son both matter. Just in different ways, at different times.

And yet, that truth doesn’t erase the weight of the choice.

For a long time, I thought the only way to be a “good mom” was to always choose my child. And the only way to be a “successful business owner” was to never slow down. But where did that leave me? Who was I outside of these two roles?

Motherhood isn’t a neat equation. We are held to impossible standards—to show up fully in every aspect of our lives, never dropping the ball, never letting anything slip. But that’s a myth.

The ball has to drop somewhere.

My therapist once asked me, “Where can you afford to let the ball drop?”

That question changed everything. Because it’s not about keeping all the balls in the air—it’s about knowing which ones can be set down for a moment and trusting that I’ll pick them back up again.

And when I do, I’ll return more focused, more energized, more me.

Later that day, while I was at the conference, I got a video of my son jumping into a ball pit, grinning from ear to ear. He wasn’t missing me the way I was missing him.

I didn’t drop the ball on him. I set it down so I could pour into something else—something that, ultimately, will help me show up as the best version of myself when I return.

I’ve had to make peace with the fact that my business will grow at a slower pace. It won’t scale as fast as it would if I weren’t a mother.

But maybe it wouldn’t have even gotten this far if I weren’t a mother.

Maybe it stands a chance because I am one.

Because I used to think I had to choose between the different versions of me. But maybe I’m not supposed to be just one thing. Maybe I am all of it—just at different times.

And maybe that’s the real trade-off.

Not success despite motherhood.

Success because of it.