From time to time, a colleague or two will ask, “How’s your daughter?” It’s such a simple, kind question, yet every time I’m asked, my answer always seems to carry a heavier weight than it should. I smile and say, “She’s grown so fast,” because it’s the truth—but the whole truth is something I carry quietly, like a song you only hum to yourself.
She really has grown so fast. Some mornings, I stare at her across the breakfast table and wonder when her cheeks got slimmer, when her words got clearer, when her steps became more confident. It feels like I blinked, and the baby I held is now a little person with opinions, routines, and favorite songs. The other day, I caught myself scrolling through old videos—her wobbling first steps, that laugh when she discovered bubbles, the first time she said “Mommy” and meant it. I wasn’t just being nostalgic. I was searching. Searching for proof that I had been present, that I had witnessed her becoming who she is.
The truth is, I work full time. Not out of necessity alone, but also because I love what I do. And that’s where the complicated feeling sets in—guilt. It doesn’t roar loudly. It creeps in during quiet moments. When I miss drop-off or pick-up, when I check the clock during a long meeting and realize she’s already napping at daycare, when I wave goodbye in the morning and her tiny hand waves back without fuss, almost too confidently—it stings a little. There’s this invisible tug-of-war between being a good parent and being a good professional. And sometimes, it feels like both sides are losing.
But here’s the part I remind myself of—the part that steadies me. She’s happy. Her eyes light up when she sees me and her Dad. She runs toward us with open arms, shouting “Mommy!” like it’s the most exciting word she’s ever known. That joy, that unfiltered love, it has a way of dissolving the guilt. In those moments, I don’t feel like I’ve missed out. I feel like I’ve arrived just in time.
She’s also learning in ways I never expected. At daycare, they have this morning routine where all the toddlers gather around after breakfast. The caregivers ask each child questions—simple ones—like “Where’s your Mommy?” or “What did you eat today?” And when it’s her turn, she proudly answers, “Mommy and Daddy are working.” She says it without sadness, without confusion. It’s just her reality, and she accepts it with a kind of grace that I’m still trying to master.
Some mornings, I’m told, she skips the circle and goes straight to playing. I used to worry about that. Was she withdrawing? Was she unhappy? But the caregivers assured me it’s just part of her rhythm. Some days she’s social, some days she’s focused on building blocks or pretending to cook in the play kitchen. She’s expressing herself in the only way she knows how, and I’ve learned to trust that.
What I’ve come to realize is that this parenting thing isn’t about being perfect or ever-present. It’s about being present in the right moments. It’s about showing up in ways that matter, even if it’s not every hour of every day. I may not always be there for the morning song circle, but I’m there for bedtime stories. I may miss the midday snack, but I never miss the sparkle in her eye when I walk through the door.
And when colleagues ask how she is, they often smile at my answer without realizing the layers beneath it. “She’s grown so fast.” Yes, she has. And with that growth comes this quiet reshaping of who I am too. I’m learning to forgive myself, to believe that working doesn’t mean loving less, and that providing is its own form of care. I’m learning that the time we do spend together can be rich, meaningful, and full of small miracles.
I also try to remind myself that she’s not keeping score. Children don’t count the minutes—they remember the moments. The silly dance in the kitchen, the way I fix her blanket just right, the hugs that last longer than they need to. To her, I’m not the mom who works too much. I’m just mom. The one who kisses her goodbye and always comes back.
Sometimes, when I look back at those old photos and videos, the guilt still sneaks in. But more often, what I feel is pride. I see a child who is growing up with love all around her—at daycare, at home, in every good morning and every good night. She’s surrounded by people who care, and she’s learning to care in return.
So yes, I work. And yes, I miss things. But I’m also giving her something else—resilience, trust, stability. She sees her parents as people with purpose. And she understands, in her own little way, that love can stretch across hours and spaces.
I’ve stopped trying to measure the quality of my motherhood by the quantity of my presence. Instead, I focus on connection. On listening to her when she speaks, even if it’s just babble. On making her laugh. On letting her know, in every way I can, that she is deeply, wonderfully loved.
This isn’t a story about regret. It’s a story about balance—the kind you keep adjusting, like a tightrope walker, never quite perfect but always moving forward. And every time someone asks about her, I get to pause and remember not just how fast she’s grown, but how far we’ve come together.
And that, to me, is enough.
