By Jeanie 
I’m an attorney, a wife to an incredibly ambitious man who worked his way up from assistant to manager in just a few short years, and a proud mother to two beautiful children—a spirited 5-year-old and a cuddly 11-month-old who currently believes sleep is optional.
A typical day in our household doesn’t start with birds chirping. It starts with an alarm, usually accompanied by the sound of a toddler demanding attention and a baby stirring in his crib, ready to begin his day at full volume. A mad dash of preparing bottles, packing lunches, and wrestling the children into clothes mostly matched, with mini tantrums. Then rush into the day, fueled by caffeine and the belief I’m doing my best—and although I share my life with a wonderful man, the load of raising our children is mine alone.
As a professional, I’m expected to show up like I don’t have kids: laser-focused, always available, meeting deadlines, solving problems, and staying ahead. There’s little room for baby interruptions or toddler tantrums. I’m required to be all in, even when a piece of my heart is still at home.
But then, the parent side kicks in, with equal intensity. I’m also expected to show up for our kids like I don’t have a job. Be at the school performance. Be at rugby practice. Be present, patient, playful, creative, emotionally available, and always “on”—even when the workday is brutal or my mind is still racing with professional responsibilities.
And that’s when the guilt creeps in.
There are days I can’t make it to a school event, and I see the disappointment in my son’s eyes. Days when I’m reading bedtime stories but mentally drafting legal briefs. Days when I feel like I’m falling short on both fronts—not enough for work, not enough for home. It’s a constant negotiation with myself: Did I give enough today? Did I miss something important?
It’s in those quiet moments—often after the chaos has settled—when the questions start creeping in, and suddenly, I feel like a failure.
My career has hit a ceiling. I rush home each evening to cook dinner, get the kids fed and bathed, and usher them into bed, often with more yelling than I’d like to admit, just to keep to a schedule that barely allows room to breathe.
There’s never enough “Mommy and me” time. Sometimes, there’s not even enough time for a simple “How was your day?”
Then there’s the stress of finances, always there, lurking in the background, quietly suffocating.
The debts don’t just weigh on your bank account; they weigh on your spirit. You say no to yourself so often, it’s become second nature—no new clothes, no salon visits, no time for self-care. And still somehow, it’s not enough. You’re treading water financially, barely keeping your head above the surface.
Sometimes, it feels like I’m working only to survive—not to live. As if I’m constantly catching up, never ahead. And while others around me seem to be thriving, I silently wonder how they’re doing it, how they’re affording family holidays, birthday parties, or even just peace of mind.
And so the pressure builds. The shame. The anxiety. The guilt that comes with every “no” you say to your children. The exhaustion that makes you question everything.
Am I a good mother?
Am I still a good lawyer?
Am I enough?
And after the parenting, the cleaning, the homework, and the late-night drafting of legal briefs, you’re left wondering: Do I have anything left to give as a wife? Does he still see me? Does he still want me? What happened to my dreams? Who is this woman staring back at me in the mirror?
But after all of it—after being a wife, a mother, a professional—you steal a quiet moment for yourself. Sometimes it’s a silent cry in the shower, where the sound of the water drowns out the ache in your chest. A space where no one can ask for anything, where no one needs you to be strong.
And then, somehow, you pull yourself together.
You dry your tears, lay out school uniforms, pack lunchboxes, review court documents, kiss little foreheads, and pour cereal like nothing’s wrong. You wake up the next morning and do it all over again.
Because that’s what mothers do. That’s what women do.
We keep everything together. We keep everyone happy. We carry the weight of the world on our shoulders—with smiles on our faces and storms brewing quietly inside.
And even though no one may see the cracks, you feel every one of them. You live with them. And yet, you rise. Again. And again.
by Dr. Heather Thompson Day 
by Hannah Angstadt-Gunning 
