A reader recently asked me to write about the ever-perplexing balancing act of work and early stage motherhood. At first, I was quite excited, for it coincided with a recent stint at a “real job” that had left me at the precipice of a nervous breakdown (yes, I’m a delicate peony). This was quickly replaced by a blazing sense of self-doubt and hesitation over sharing an experience that felt glazed with a thick schmear of privilege, disassociated with what my partner refers to as “the real world” in which people need to have jobs rather than opting in and out of them. Then, I thought to myself, f*ck it. It’s my newsletter and, if we all continue being mum in an effort to avoid triggering our twice-removed third cousins, then AI will surely be writing Substacks for us soon. And so, here it goes.
I have always been a multitasker, the kind of person who likes to dabble in a few different endeavors in lieu of picking a singular focus. After a few years of work in fashion and PR, I was lucky to tap into something I truly loved – writing – and was even more fortunate to convert it into a relatively profitable vocation by way of copywriting. The job was made for me: as somebody who had always been averse to office culture, I thrived on making my own schedule and working autonomously, while still feeling like I was part of something bigger. Most importantly, I had time to pursue all my pro bono projects, from writing for magazines, to recounting my ridiculous dating exploits on Dbag Dating (RIP), to working on a book based on said ridiculous exploits. Sure, I would occasionally drop a ball or two to drive one of the others to the finish line, but, other than that, I was great at juggling them all. In a way, I was ahead of my time, a multihyphenate even before the concept entered the masses and became a defining term for my entire generation.
Then came motherhood. Coincidentally, the year I got pregnant was also the same year my book came out, a twin birthing with variable results. Although my pipe dreams for my literary gem never came to fruition (I did not, to the chagrin of my bank account, inspire Emily in Paris), I felt that my career was in a decent enough place for me to temporarily slow down. While I had no idea how much time I would dedicate to traditional maternity leave, I was certain I wanted to temporarily remove the pressure of the “hustle” and enjoy this new life stage.
As it often happens, things figured themselves out naturally. To start, my partner happened to open a new bar, Bathtub Gin LA, a few months after my daughter was born, and, as his self-appointed marketing director, I was never at a loss of work. Ever the oversharer, I started writing about my motherhood journey – first, on Vogue.com, then more candidly in this newsletter. During #CampBabushka time in Miami, I worked on a few bigger projects from the “dream big” life category (if any of them hit, you’ll be the first to know). While certain moments were more stressful than others, there was always a predominant sense of balance between fulfilling my interests, enjoying my life, and spending abundant time with my child.
Right around Sasha’s second birthday, I began getting that itch that comes with being too consumed by one’s household, a lifestyle accompanied by very little pizzazz and a daily uniform of athleisure. Working with your partner can be rewarding, but it can also blur all lines between church and state and strip you of any semblance of autonomy and agency. Plus, I was yearning to actually make money. And so, I began looking for a “real job,” the kind that would come with deadlines and expectations and a paycheck to justify it. After months of interviews, I finally secured a position that seemed perfect – a part-time copywriting gig for a boutique creative agency that promised challenging projects and a flexible schedule, the holy grail of mom jobs.
Granted, what seems too good to be true usually is. While I’ll refrain from details to avoid poor Glassdoor karma, let’s just say that I ended up spending the bulk of my time co-writing “quippy” newsletter copy with my loyal (employer-approved) assistant, ChatGPT. To add insult to injury, the “flexible” part of the job meant that I was technically free to work on my own time – as long as my Slack messages were answered within five minutes of receipt. There were also the matters of my other part-time job for Dave, this newsletter, my household, and my child.
Had it not been for the motherhood part of it all, I would have aced it. Three years prior, I would have buckled down, gone into serious multitasking mode, and managed to keep all the balls in the air. I would have canceled plans and worked weekends and eaten from the Whole Foods ready-to-eat section for a solid six months, until finally burning out and bouncing to Europe to write a terrible poetry collection. (Welcome to what my fiancé likes to refer to as “Marina Land,” not too dissimilar to Barbie Land.)
And yet, because I’m no longer a free agent and happen to have a partner and a two-year-old who always seem to need me, it all became too much before my first paycheck cleared. The days flew by in a state of chaos, with me toggling between working for the agency and working for Dave and running home to be a personal-chef-slash-mom, only to continue working the minute my daughter would go to bed. Assignments were being submitted at midnight, Amazon Fresh orders were hitting the doorstep at 6am, and the weeks would fly by in the blink of an eye, leaving few impressions other than working and cleaning the kitchen counter. My temper, never my strong suit, was becoming increasingly volatile. Oh, did I mention that my (amazing, incredible) nanny’s hours were growing every week, to the point where her paychecks were coming close to eclipsing mine? The whole thing felt unsustainable, pointless, wrong.
I remember the day sh*t finally hit the proverbial fan. It was a Friday morning and I was about two and a half months into the job and two and a half hours into losing my mind. I was getting ready to go to work, i.e., to my husband’s bar, an unideal escape abundant with distractions, when Sasha flung herself on me in between my knees. “No work, mama, no!” she cried, quickly erupting into a full-scale tantrum that felt both typical and devastating at the same time. At that moment, my heart broke – not just for me, but for all the mothers out there who leave their babies every morning to have them be raised by other women. The only difference is, so many of them don’t have another choice.
And so, I quit. I took the weekend to think about it, and, on Monday, I made the call, a decision I have never come close to questioning. Life slowed down and became fun again: I started reading, traveling, perusing the world of toddler activoties. And yet, I could feel my self-esteem deflating with each sip of leisurely rosé. I had wanted so badly to be the woman who could do it all, who could wear all the hats and be everything to everyone, and I had failed that version of myself. At the end of the day, I couldn’t handle the pressure.
When I complained to my partner about it, he responded with the same thing he has always said, the one that feels like a warm blanket yet also evokes the sense of being a coddled child. “Maybe, for now, you can just focus on being a mother. Once she’s in school, you’ll figure it out.”
“Yes, but I am a terrible full-time mom, you know that!” I responded, feeling utterly useless. I didn’t want to work full-time; I didn’t want to be a stay-at-home mother – clearly, I wanted to have my cake and eat it and come back for more. I was, simply put, not cut out for adult life.
A few days later, I was reading a newsletter by Katherine Ormerod, a writer I had recently discovered and had quickly come to love, in which she detailed her own (far more successful) career trajectory. “I give my family every last drop I have available to them, it just often seems my tank is too shallow. I need time off or I stop being the best person to look after them; I need fulfillment outside of family life or I unravel and snap.”
The experience was so beautifully summed up in her words, that the cloud I had been feeling for days started to lift. Maybe, my insatiable quest for “balance” within my new life wasn’t coddled or selfish or wrong. Perhaps, it was simply a function of my nervous system, which had always required a few hours of perfect silence and “fulfillment” in order to operate at its optimal best. Maybe, instead of fighting it and comparing myself to others who were wired differently, it was simply time to accept it. In fact, now that I was a mother and always had to be “on,” taking care of my mental state was likely more important than ever before.
I remember standing on a New York subway platform many years ago, watching a woman scream profanities at her three children, the kind of things that shock bystanders into calling social services. I recall judging her so harshly, wondering what kind of mother could act like that. Two and a half years into being a parent myself, I see that woman from a completely different lens: exhausted, depleted, hopeless. Take away my sleep, my nanny, my daily hours of peace and quiet, and I guarantee that my fuse would get so short that I too would do irreparable damage.
We put so much emphasis on pregnancy health, but what we often fail to realize is that the responsibility of taking care of yourself doesn’t end when your baby leaves your body. In fact, it becomes even more imperative to create the circumstances that guarantee the most stable caretaker for your child. After all, you are their foundation, their baseline, their memories. Perhaps, the real privilege is the ability to ensure they are the best ones you can give.
❤️