My mum worked for the same major High Street bank from the day she left university until the day she retired.

She’d already been with them for eight years before I was born (in the late 1980s), and after maternity leave she returned to work. Two years later, after my brother was born, she took a six-year career break to raise us - something her employer supported. They were so supportive, in fact, that she kept a clipping from The Guardian featuring an article in which she was interviewed about how wonderfully supportive her employer was. The bank even provided a comment. They went so far as to say she could return at the same pay grade she had left.

But when the career break ended (with my brother and me settled in primary school and the mortgage looming), everything had changed. When she asked to return, that earlier “support” disappeared. They said, ‘You can return at the same grade and work part-time, or you can be demoted and work full-time.’

Full-time and demotion meant more take-home pay, so that’s what she chose.

However, her pension - which was non-contributory and opted her out of part of the state pension for National Insurance savings - relied on continuous service. The career break reset her service date, wiping out the years before she went on maternity leave with my brother.

In the end, she lost ten years of state pension and ten years of her employer pension, as well as taking a demotion from her supposedly ‘supportive’ employer.”

A “supportive” policy that looked brilliant in The Guardian, and devastating in real life.
A woman celebrated for balancing motherhood and work - right up until she actually tried to.
A company that couldn’t just quietly undo the promise; it rewrote her history.

Her service. Her pension. Her progress. Gone.

She still keeps that newspaper clipping -yellowed now, folded in half - proof that once upon a time, she was a headline.

I have. And friends, it’s enough to make me want to invoice society.

According to research from Pregnant Then Screwed, mums in the UK lose around £65,000 in earnings before their child even starts school! That’s before we get into pension gaps, missed promotions, and those “we’ll just put you on part-time for now” conversations that somehow never end.

I built a little tool to help you work it out for yourself - part therapy, part financial horror show. It’s called the Motherhood Career Impact Calculator, and it’s painfully simple (I tired to get very fancy with % VALUES and FORMULAS, but I nearly drove myself insane, so, it’s a little basic, but you get the idea.)

How to use it

Grab the basic calculator here - and make a copy.

Fill in:

• How much pay or promotion you think you’ve missed since having kids

• The income gaps from maternity leave, part-time work, or redundancy

• Pension contributions that never happened

• Bonuses or stock options that evaporated like your free time

It’ll spit out a total that’s… well, grim.

But here’s the thing… I am not entirely sure it’s about the exact number.
It’s about naming it.
Because when you name it, you can stop blaming yourself for it. Ateast that has how it has helped me.

Why it matters?

Every mum has her own version of this story.
Some were promised flexibility and handed a demotion instead.
Some were made redundant shortly after maternity leave *ahem*

And yet, we’re told to be grateful for “supportive employers.”
(Like the woman who messaged me saying her mum’s company once made her choose between a demotion or part-time hours - and she lost ten years of pension. Ten. Years.)

So, your turn

If you’ve ever wondered what motherhood has really cost you, try the calculator.
Add up the missed raises, the unpaid overtime, the promotions that went to someone with fewer childcare pick-ups.

Then, if you feel brave enough - share your story.
Tag me @wornoutworkingmum on Instagram/TT

Because every pound tells a piece of the story that shouldn’t still need telling.
And if we shout loud enough, maybe one day the price of motherhood won’t be so high.

PS:

Do not even get me started on childcare costs on top of all this.

Returning to work is a lot like having a baby: people love to focus on the bad bits. But unlike pregnancy and childbirth, no one really preps you for the return to work. It’s not all bad, of course. My first maternity return was surprisingly positive: my team, my boss, and the company I worked for made the process as smooth as it could be. I even progressed in my career following my first leave.

But my second maternity return? It broke my heart. And I want to make sure no other woman feels that alone during such a challenging time. This isn’t official advice, and I can’t promise it’ll solve everything, but here’s how to spot the BS when you return, and what you can do about it. (Note: I won’t cover legalities because that’s not my area, but we’ll get you clued up where it counts.)

Red Flags to Watch Out For

1. You’re Not in the Loop Anymore
You return, and suddenly no one’s CC-ing you on emails. Meetings are happening without you, and big decisions about your projects have been made by Steve, who, suspiciously, seems to have been promoted while you were wiping up mashed banana.

2. Your Role Has “Changed”
Oh, you’re back? Fantastic! Except your job has been “restructured.” You’re now heading up a completely different team (translation: doing the work no one else wanted), or worse, you’re being handed tasks that feel like a demotion. If words like “team realignment” or “business needs” start cropping up, it’s worth digging deeper.

3. The Welcome Back Is Lukewarm at Best
You’re met with awkward smiles, a desk that’s mysteriously been relocated to the corner, and your boss seems conveniently “too busy” for a proper catch-up.

4. Missed Opportunities
While you were out keeping a tiny human alive, opportunities for promotion, training, or pay reviews conveniently passed you by. “Oh, we didn’t want to bother you while you were on leave.” Translation: “We hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

5. Vibes Are Off
Listen, no one knows the office politics better than someone returning after time away. If the vibe has shifted - side-eye glances, people avoiding conversations - it’s worth digging into.

What You Can Do

1. Document Everything
Keep a record of meetings, emails, and any changes to your role. If you feel you’re being sidelined, having evidence to back it up will be invaluable if you need to escalate things.

2. Request a Re-Onboarding Plan
If they haven’t given you a clear plan for your return, ask for one. This could include a catch-up on key projects, introductions to any new team members, and a review of what’s changed since you left.

3. Schedule a Meeting With Your Manager
Be proactive. Ask for a one-on-one to discuss your role, goals, and any opportunities for progression. Frame it positively - “I’m excited to jump back in and keen to see where I can add value.”

4. Network
Build relationships with your colleagues, old and new. If you’ve been left out of conversations, reintegrating yourself can help remind people that you’re a key player.

5. Educate Yourself on Your Rights
While I can’t delve into the legal stuff, familiarise yourself with maternity and discrimination rights. If you suspect foul play, don’t hesitate to seek advice from an employment solicitor or HR professional.

6. Find Your Tribe
Talk to other working mums. Join online communities, forums, or local meet-ups. Nothing beats having a group of people who get it and can offer advice, solidarity, and sometimes wine recommendations.

7. SAR
SAR - Subject Access Request will serve as a legal receipt - you can do this at any point, on return or when things feel “off” you can formally request all files, messages, emails and conversations from your employer, where you may have been mentioned.

Remember: You’re Not Alone

Returning to work after maternity leave can be wonderful, difficult, or a messy combination of the two. If things feel off, trust your instincts. You’re not imagining it, you’re not overreacting, and you absolutely have the right to advocate for yourself.

Oh, and if they keep calling you “part-time” just because you had a baby? Politely remind them you now have two full-time jobs and are smashing them both, thank you very much.

You’ve got this. And if you don’t feel like you’ve got this, I’m here, Nutella spoon in hand, ready to cheer you on.

Meanwhile, I’d just started a shiny new, bigger role at work. Did it come with a pay rise? Of course not, don’t be silly. But I still wanted to make a great first impression with my new boss.

Spoiler alert: Hand, Foot, and Mouth does not scream “competent professional.” Especially when your child has decided that the only person in the world who can possibly soothe them is you. Not just “wants you,” but must be physically attached to you at all times.

So, naturally, just as I was recovering from that fiasco, the universe decided it wasn’t done with me yet. Enter: a monstrous norovirus. A week later. And yes, my son got it first. Cue the all-too-familiar soundtrack of retching, crying, and my own internal screaming.

Here’s the thing: it’s not just that your sweet little angel is unwell. It’s the noise. The sleep deprivation. The house that now resembles a war zone. The mountain of laundry that’s grown a life of its own. And, of course, work. Even if you have the most understanding boss on the planet, the world doesn’t stop spinning just because your child is expelling bodily fluids at an alarming rate. Everything piles up, and suddenly you’re buried under a to-do list the size of Mount Everest.

But here’s the good news. I’ve been through the wringer enough times to pick up a few survival tricks along the way. So, here’s my Sick Day 101 guide. It’s still going to be miserable, let’s not lie. But these tips might just make it slightly less awful, especially if you’re a working mum trying to hold it all together with a prayer and a large cup of coffee.

Deciding What Absolutely Must Get Done (and What Can Wait)

When your kid is projectile vomiting and you’ve had three hours of sleep, your to-do list is toast.

The trick? Ask yourself: what’s urgent? If it’s not something that could actually get you fired, let it wait.

Now, what must get done? That’s the bare minimum. Like replying to that one email or scheduling the doctor’s appointment. Focus on those. The rest? Let it slide. Trust me, the world won’t end if you don’t vacuum today.

Communicating with Work When the Day Falls Apart

If you’re a working mum, you’ve had that moment when you realise, “Oh no, I’m not going to make it to the office or Zoom meeting today.”

Here’s how to keep your professional composure while basically drowning in chaos:

Be honest: You don’t need to overshare. “I’m dealing with an unexpected family emergency and need to take the day off” is perfectly fine.

Set expectations: “I can’t do X today, but I’ll have it done by [date/time].”

Offer solutions: “I’ll catch up later this evening” or “I’ll delegate this to [person].”

Keep it short: Don’t apologise. You’re not being flaky, you’re parenting.

When YOU Need to Call in Sick

Ask yourself: is there any way I can make it through today without completely losing it?

If the answer is no, it’s time to make the call. Your mental health is as important as your physical health.

Quick litmus test:

• Can you get out of bed without feeling like you’ll collapse?

• Will your sick child or your own symptoms make it impossible to focus?

• Are you just trying to be a martyr because you don’t want to let anyone down?

If that last one hit home, stop. You’re not superwoman. You’re allowed to rest.

Sick Kids + Deadlines = Survival Mode

When your kid is sick and your workload is overflowing, you enter what I call Survival Mode. It’s like a game of Jenga - one wrong move and it all falls apart.

Work Hacks

Set Up a “Sick Station”
Think of it as battle prep. Create a comfy base camp on the sofa stocked with blankets, water, snacks that won’t cause more vomit, and the remote. Bonus points if you can set your laptop within arm’s reach.

Stay Semi-Productive
You’re not going to hit peak performance. Aim for semi-functional. Tackle low-effort tasks, quick replies, or anything that requires minimal brain cells.

Parenting Hacks

Easy Comfort Food
No one needs to cook right now. Think:

• Toast with peanut butter

• Soup from a tin

• Instant noodles

• Cold pizza (the true sick-day MVP)

Screen Time Without the Guilt
This is not the day for parenting perfection. It’s survival. Hand over the iPad. Stick on the movie they’ve watched 48 times. You need peace, and they need rest. They’ll live.

When You’re the One Who’s Sick

The universe loves irony. Your kid’s finally better, and now you’re the one coughing up a lung. But the world doesn’t stop, does it?

Here’s the truth: powering through when you’re ill is a terrible idea.

Speak up: “I’m not feeling well and need to take a sick day.” That’s it. You don’t owe an essay about your symptoms.

Give yourself permission to rest: Resting isn’t letting people down. It’s ensuring you don’t fall apart.

Delegating (Without the Guilt)

You’ve done it all, and now you’re completely fried. This is your reminder that you don’t have to do it all alone.

Ask for help:
Have a clear, guilt-free chat with your partner or family:
“Hey, I can’t do this all myself. Can you take over X today?”

If it feels awkward, remember: this is about survival, not pride. There’s no gold star for burnout.

Outsource where you can:
Cleaner, grocery delivery, takeaway, whatever buys you back time and sanity. You’re not failing… you’re managing.

Simple scripts to make asking easier:

• Partner: “I need your help with X so I can focus on Y.”

• Friend: “Could you give me a hand with [task]? I’ll owe you coffee or wine.”

• Work: “Can we move the deadline for [project]? I’ll make it up once things calm down.”

The Emotional Fallout

Ah, the guilt. The ever-present guilt that hovers like a dark cloud over every working mum.

At work, you feel like you’re letting your team down. At home, you feel like you’re letting your kids down. The truth? You’re not failing at anything. You’re just doing your best - and that is enough.

You can’t be everywhere, doing everything, all the time. When that 2 AM guilt spiral hits, remind yourself: your best is enough.

Ask yourself, what’s more important right now - your child’s well-being or a perfectly ticked-off to-do list? Spoiler: your kid wins every time.

A Reminder (Because You Probably Need It)

You’re doing your best.

The messy kitchen will wait. The inbox will still be there. But your kids won’t always need you like this.

You might feel like you’re failing, but you’re showing up, trying, surviving - and that’s more than enough.

e attached.”

Guilt doesn’t serve you, your family, or your work. Let it go. You’re not failing, you’re surviving. And some days, that’s the most impressive thing of all!

Because I’ll be honest, watching my two together is one of my favourite things in the world. Sure, they occasionally argue over who gets the sparkly spoon or who can run faster to the car - but underneath it all, they’re thick as thieves. And I can’t help but wonder: what makes that last? What makes siblings grow up and still actually like each other when the world starts pulling them in different directions?

So, I asked: what did your parents do that made you like your siblings?

And, you had thoughts.

1. “We were on the same team, against Mum.”

One mum wrote:

“My mum was hilarious and dramatic and got angry over the stupidest things, so my sister and I bonded over it. It was basically us versus her emotional instability.”

Honestly? Fair.

Turns out, mutual trauma can make great friendship glue. Maybe the goal isn’t to be the perfect parent, but to give them enough shared material to unpack in therapy together later. Sibling trauma, but make it bonding.

2. “We had to share everything: bedrooms, baths, secrets.”

One woman said she and her brother shared a tiny room until they were teenagers.

“We were forced to negotiate space, noise, and who got the ‘good’ pillow. It taught us how to coexist.”

It’s funny because all modern parenting advice screams boundaries and personal space, but maybe we’ve gone too far.

Maybe character is forged through hearing your sibling breathe too loudly and learning not to commit homicide over it.

3. “Mum never compared us.”

This one came up a lot.

“Mum always said we were totally different people. She celebrated our differences instead of pitting us against each other.”

Which is lovely.

And also much easier when you don’t have two kids within 18 months of each other who both want the blue cup.

I love this idea that they are both be brilliant in different ways - it feels like something I want to bottle and spray liberally around the house.

4. “We were never told to be friends.”

This one made me pause.

“Mum didn’t force it. She said, ‘You don’t have to like each other, but you do have to be kind.’”

And that’s genius, isn’t it? It takes the pressure off.

I’ve been trying to manufacture sibling friendship: “Okay, now hold hands! Look happy! Say cheese! Don’t bite each other!”

But maybe the trick is to let them find their own rhythm? With a firm “no biting” policy, obviously.

5. “We laughed. A lot.”

“My parents had a wicked sense of humour. If we were fighting, they’d defuse it with laughter, never shame. We grew up laughing together, not just living together.”

Laughter is VERY easy to forget when you’re knee-deep in laundry, deadlines, and existential rage that someone hid your mascara in the Lego box.

But laughter softens everything. Even the sharp bits.

So, what do I take from all this?

That maybe sibling closeness isn’t about making everything fair.

It’s about shared experiences - even the messy ones.

It’s about you accidentally giving them a common enemy (hi, bedtime), giving them space to be different, and never forcing it to look like an advert for matching pyjamas.

One day, I hope my kids will be the kind of siblings who laugh about how I lost it over someone emptied an entire yoghurt pot in the car. Who team up to roll their eyes at me, to make fun of my social media, to remind each other that they were loved, even when life was loud.

So tell me - were you raised to love your siblings, tolerate them, or secretly plot their downfall?

Hit reply, I want the tea.

She went back to work when her baby was eight months old. Three days a week, topped up with annual leave, felt like the perfect compromise. She even called it her “worky little break” a chance to have a hot coffee, use her brain in a different way, and talk about something other than teething.

When her baby turned one, the annual leave ran out and she began a flexible working trial: 34 hours over four days. It felt like a win. For about ten minutes. Exactly 1.5 weeks in, her boss gathered the “lower ranking” staff for a meeting and dropped the bomb: efficiency review, roles cut, consultancy period begins. HR… or the “People Team” as they now branded themselves, hadn’t even clocked the changes in parental protection law.

Meanwhile, her baby was admitted to hospital for a month. She slept every night on a fold-out chair beside the cot. Redundancy meetings were held right there on the ward, with other parents as unwilling witnesses. At her lowest point, she was told she was “saved” not because her employer valued her, but because the law forced them to.

The job that returned to her was unrecognisable: flexibility cancelled, hours extended, responsibilities stripped back into glorified admin. Other colleagues got flexible working signed off without a hitch. She got told to be “in” five days a week.

Eight months later, she hates the job but feels trapped. Her child still needs regular hospital appointments. Probation elsewhere feels impossible. She even went for an internal role she could have done blindfolded; she nailed the presentation but, thanks to brain fog and exhaustion, stumbled through the competency interview. Rejected.

She jokes about becoming a gardener, childminder, or dog walker - jobs she thought about during the summer when life felt a bit lighter. But winter storms aren’t kind to those options either.

Her words cut through: “Motherhood has beaten me so far. Somewhere inside is the woman who just wants to do a good job at her proper job. One day she’ll be back. For now, I’m just trying to keep all the plates spinning.”

Why does no one tell us this part before family planning? Why isn’t this the conversation happening alongside antenatal classes?

Also, considering my son is literally moving schools this week, I am probably the least qualified person to hand out advice. But here we are. It’s me. Your frazzled correspondent from the trenches. You’re welcome.

1. If you dressed them super nice, ironed their clothes, washed their hair, even cleaned their fingernails and they are returned to you looking like they’ve just been living feral in the forest with the Gruffalo.… do not panic. Totally normal.

2. Reception is essentially just playing with their mates and doing a lot of colouring. Honestly, it’s daycare with snacks and the vague promise of literacy. They’re going to have the best time.

3. Phonics will take over your life for a short time. You will start questioning your very existence and how you ever learnt to read, because it was definitely not with a cartoon frog screaming “SOUND IT OUT” at you through a glitchy app.

4. Speaking of apps: prepare for the trauma of school logins. They will lock you out ten times in the first term. You will develop a reflex where you type your email address so often it appears in your dreams. You will miss something. I missed the spelling app for a whole term. “Have you been using Spelling Bee?” they asked. “What bee? I am unfamiliar with a bee.”

5. They all catch up. The genius who was reading Dickens at 3 while your kid was still snacking on Play-Doh? By Year 2, they’ll be on the same level. (Unless they’re Mensa. In which case… good luck, I can’t help you. Maybe that kid will cure cancer while yours is still perfecting fart noises. Both valid.)

6. Now, about friendships: your child will inevitably gravitate towards the kid who is feral, covered in mud, and possibly screaming. The parents will look like they hate you. Congratulations, that’s your child’s new best mate.

7. The PTA. Oh, the PTA. They will attempt recruitment. It’s like a very nice polite pyramid scheme but with raffle tickets (legal reasons this is a joke). I am not saying don’t join, they can be fun, you can make mum mates… but also… give it time. The first year is intense. You’ve got six more years at that school. Acclimate. Observe. THEN commit.

8. Label everything. EVERYTHING. If you don’t, your child will lose it in under four minutes. Jumper, water bottle, dignity. Gone.

9. School dinners vs packed lunches: I am a working parent. I do not have the bandwidth to create elaborate bento boxes with sandwiches shaped like woodland animals. My son once asked why his friends got packed lunches and he didn’t. I panicked. Then I invented the concept of “Dinner Picnic.” He eats a hot school lunch and then has a packed-style dinner at home. Voila. Same thing. Stop asking questions.

10. And finally: prepare your tissues. Dropping my eldest off that first day, we both waved bravely. I was proud. Then I got in the car and immediately imagined him sitting in class silently panicking about how to ask to go to the toilet… and I BAWLED. Like, Oscar-winning ugly crying.

Go forth, parents. May your coffee be strong, your labels permanent, and your app passwords actually work.

Because if you’d told me before I had kids that I’d one day have to battle the flu while doing the school run, picking up my youngest from nursery, feeding my little termite army, and dealing with three consecutive poopy nappies, I would’ve drawn up some kind of pre-baby contract. Something with bullet points and signatures. Something legally binding. At least something where I could tap out of parenting when my body decided to betray me.

But no. There’s no tapping out. No substitutes waiting on the bench. It’s just you. And when you’re barely holding it together and the flu-induced weepiness kicks in, you start to spiral. You wonder:

Why is no one here?

Why is no one helping?

And why on earth do I have to look after my kids when I’m dying?!

In a last-ditch effort, I usually send out a desperate, half-joking, half-serious blanket text to anyone nearby. Something along the lines of, "HELP! I’m going under! Send pain relief! And possibly some childcare!"

Here are some of the very helpful responses I’ve received over the years - not just from my own experience but also from other mums in the trenches:

• “I wish I could help!”

• “Is there anything I can do?” (Translation: Please don’t ask me to do anything.)

• “You poor thing. I don’t know how you do it.” (Neither do I.)

• “You’re such a good mum!” (Am I though? Because my kids are currently eating biscuits off the floor naked.)

• “Get well soon!” (Great advice. Why didn’t I think of that?)

Thanks, everyone. That’s really helpful. Truly. So instead, I let the kids run feral. It becomes a survival-of-the-fittest situation. You want to write on the walls? Fine. Want chocolate at 8 a.m.? Knock yourselves out. Honestly, whatever keeps them quiet and stops me from having to move too much is fair game.

And yet, as chaotic and messy as these moments are, there’s also a quiet truth in them. Not having a village sucks. It’s lonely. It’s hard. And it’s not just about the practical side of things, having someone to do the nursery run or pop to Tesco when you’re bedridden. It’s about knowing someone has your back. That someone will step in and say, “I’ve got this. You rest.”

Instead, we muddle through. We parent through the flu, miscarriages, the existential crises. The unsung heroes of survival parenting, fuelled by paracetamol, sheer stubbornness and the fact we just have to. And while I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, there’s a strange, twisted kind of pride in knowing you’ve come out the other side.

So here’s to all the parents with no village, raising their kids while holding back their own tears. You’re not alone. And if you’re reading this while lying on the sofa, surrounded by kids who’ve just turned your living room into a war zone, let me just say: You’re such a good mum. Get well soon.

I used to think I was the lucky one.

I had a career I loved. A passport that got stamped regularly. Sunshine. Community. A kitchen that didn’t smell like fish fingers and resentment. We had help. We had balance. We had big plans.

And then we had a baby. And then he said: “Let’s move back home. Just for a couple of years. So we can buy a house.”

Spoiler alert: it’s been four years, I live in a town I never chose, in a life I didn’t design, raising a child I adore (largely alone) with a man who works shifts, weekends, evenings, and has magically designed a life that revolves entirely around his convenience. Meanwhile, I can’t even revolve my bladder around childcare.

I used to think I was different from the women who came before me. That we had evolved. That my ambition meant something. That shared parenting was real.

But it wasn’t evolution. It was branding. They just got better at selling the same sh*t in different packaging.

Now I see it. The slow erosion of self.
The “just for now” that became forever.
The way we contort to keep everything running smoothly for everyone else, and call it love.

I’m not oppressed.
I’m just exhausted.
And married to someone living his best life while mine got labelled “too much,” “too angry,” or “just hormonal.”

But here’s the twist: I don’t see the women before me as naive anymore. I see them as warriors. They weren’t weak. They were walking miracles of resilience! Getting up every day to live someone else’s dream, with grace, with grit, and sometimes with lipstick that hadn’t even smudged.

And maybe it’s our turn to stop whispering, to stop saying “I’m fine,” and to start saying:
This isn’t fine.
This isn’t equality.
This isn’t the life we were promised.

But we are still here. Feeding the fish. Packing the lunches. Keeping receipts of who we used to be. And maybe, just maybe, our children will see us clearly enough to do it differently.

But I get it. It’s the corporate world. It’s not personal.

Except… It feels personal. Going for a role, applying, finding the time between school runs and snack negotiations, doing a 9pm interview on a Friday night in the middle of the summer holidays? It takes a chunk out of your soul.

I think I went through all five stages of grief before I even had the interview.

Stage one: Denial.
“I’d never survive full-time work again,” I whispered to no one, while rocking back and forth in leggings I’ve worn since Tuesday.

Stage two: Bargaining.
“But steady income could be good, right? I could outsource the kids’ social lives. Maybe even buy a new coat?”

Stage three: Depression.
I cried three times in one week just imagining my daughter looking for me at nursery while I answer a Teams message.

Stage four: Delusion. (Not official, but we all know it’s real.)
I got excited about the idea of offsites, team animations, coffee that’s not mine. WHO WAS SHE?

Stage five: Blind Hope.
For the first time in ages, I dared to dream. About actual plans. Being seated at the table again, having big conversations, making decisions, speaking to other adults that weren’t my husband.

And I sort of loved the interview prep. I know. Silly. Embarrassing. I basically built a mock interview dungeon and started drafting Slack threads to imaginary colleagues. My brain was alive again. It had a chew toy. And it felt, dare I say… good.

But then I had the next round of the interviews.

And I knew.

Not that I didn’t get it (I’m disgustingly and incorrectly optimistic about my own abilities) but I knew it wasn’t a match. The conversation had the energy of a self-service checkout machine rejecting my bagging area. Robotic. Hollow. Like I was being scanned for corporate weaknesses.

Did I blink weird? Did I say “KPIs” too enthusiastically? Did I smile too much? Should I have been more apathetic?

I hate rejection. It’s so physical. It gets into your chest and settles in your bones like an unpaid bill. And even though I know it’s not personal, it feels like I lost a job I never even had.

Was someone else better? I can handle that.

Did I fumble it? Did I give off “hasn’t spoken to an adult in 48 hours” energy? Was it the moment I earnestly pitched my delegation prowess like I’d just cracked the code to happiness and quarterly reporting at the same time?

Anyway. This is a very self-indulgent post. I know that.

But I think I needed to say it out loud (on the internet, with several hundred words and an overuse of italics). Even my content lately has felt a bit… off. Like the corporate veil was descending again:

“Don’t post that. Is that appropriate? Don’t say f*ck. Don’t mention childcare logistics!”

Nah.

So. Silver linings: Expect a flood of deeply not corporate-friendly content from me coming soon. I’m back. Slightly bruised, but back. And this time, I’m bringing the spreadsheets and the swearing.

Welcome to the inner workings of a recovering people pleaser.

And no, I don’t mean the cute, digestible kind of people-pleasing that goes viral on TikTok with a pastel filter and a voiceover that says “It’s not your job to make everyone comfortable.”

I mean the kind that physically made me nauseous if I thought someone was cross with me. The kind that made me think, “Oh god, maybe I am a bad person?” because the birthday card I sent made it a day late.

Let me back up.

Childhood Core Belief: Be Good, Be Liked, Stay Safe

I was raised to believe being “good” and being “liked” were basically the same thing. That if everyone smiled at you and called you polite, then nothing bad could happen. You’d be safe. You’d be loveable. You’d be allowed to exist without causing a scene.

I thought I was a shy child.

Then I saw a home video of myself at 9 years old parading around the living room in a home made crop top and essentially shouting “WELCOME TO MY SHOW.”

I nearly died.

Who let her take up that much space?

The cringe I felt watching that back wasn’t from embarrassment, at least I don’t think?

I was mourning.

For the little girl I told to tone it down. To be smaller. Sweeter. Nicer. Safer.

Realisation: Being Liked ≠ Being Safe

Here’s what 30ish years of hardcore people-pleasing taught me:

You can be the kindest, softest, most humble little cookie in the box and someone will still not like you.

Because we’re not robots. We’re not here to be universally approved like seat belts, or air fryers.

So I made a decision:

I wasn’t going to stop giving a f entirely.

But I was going to become very, very selective about what got my fs.

The Very Specific Things I Still Give a F About:

1. People I love (and who love me back).

2. Not being an asshole.

3. Living: not existing for applause.

If it’s not one of those three? It’s up for the chopping block.

And here’s how I made the cut:

Step 1: Accept the Uncomfortable Truth

Some people just won’t like you.

Not because you’re awful, but because… well, humans are weird.

Some people hate cats. Some people hate chocolate. Some people will hate your face and not know why.

It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.

It means you’re quite simply human.

Step 2: Exposure Therapy (a.k.a. Be Cringe on Purpose)

You’re scared of speaking in public?

Post on Linkedin.

Worried people will judge you?

They probably will.

Do it anyway.

Seriously. Do it every day for a year.

Be visibly awkward.

Feel the social horror rise in your throat, and then go to bed.

Wake up.

Do it again.

Eventually, you get so used to the cringe it starts to feel like background noise. Like living near a train station or under the Heathrow flight path (hello Wandsworth.)

Step 3: Compartmentalise

Post the thing.

Write the thing.

Say the thing.

Then mentally shove it in a box, label it “Not My Problem Anymore” and move on with your day.

Want to write a book?

Write 200 words.

Shut the laptop.

Make a sandwich.

Repeat tomorrow.

You’re not a performing monkey. You’re building a muscle. And guess what? You don’t need feedback to keep lifting.

Step 4: Accept That You’ll Be Talked About

If you’re showing up online, starting a business, writing, dancing, living out loud - then people are going to see you.

They will whisper.

Old colleagues. Exes. Helen from year 9 who bullied you.

But guess what?

Being talked about means you’re doing something.

No one gossips about the silent observer in the corner.

They gossip about the person doing something brave, something loud, something real.

Final Thought:

You don’t need to stop caring. You just need to redirect your caring like a laser beam instead of a floodlight.

You don’t need to become bulletproof.

You just need to remember that other people’s opinions are often just projections.

So go be cringe.

Be weird.

Be seen.

Be the strange little girl in the home made tank top who owns the room.

She has it right all along.

Share Worn Out Working Mum

A lovely follower shared this with me:

“Had worked for the same company in a male-dominated industry for 6 years before going on 9 months maternity leave in 2022. Had always received amazing feedback, praise, and been given a lot of responsibility.

Upon my return to work, I found out that ALL other employees on my level (all men and some of whom had been working for less time than me) had been promoted because they ‘had managed the correct level of project’ whilst I was off.

I was told I’d need to do the same, but in the 6 months I was back, I wasn’t given any major projects - just lots of smaller works (which, by the way, take just as much time, effort, and skill to juggle). But apparently, those don’t count for progression.

So I quit. Took a promotion, a pay rise, and got more flexible working at a new company.”

Let’s pause.
Let it soak in.
All the men got promoted.
Because they were present. Not necessarily better. Not necessarily more experienced.
Just... there.

That’s it, isn’t it? You blink, you grow a human, you keep your body alive while being kicked in the bladder, you return nine months later still lactating, and you’re told that everyone else has climbed the ladder while you were “away.”

You weren’t on sabbatical.
You weren’t on a beach in Bali.
You were on maternity leave. You know… the thing we are legally allowed to do without being punished for it?

And here’s the kicker: she asked to get back into the same kinds of projects. She didn’t come back asking for a red carpet and a cheese board. She just wanted fair access. And instead, they handed her a pile of thankless tasks, said “that’s not promotable,” and left her to rot at her level while patting each other on the back for managing “real” projects.

Maternity leave isn’t a career break. It’s a bloody career shift.

You come back with more skills, not less. Time management? You’re now able to reply to emails, breastfeed, cook pasta, and remove a sticker from a toddler’s hair simultaneously!!!

Negotiation? Ever tried getting a toddler into a car seat they don’t want to be in? That’s HR-level diplomacy with a side of hostage crisis management.

So when a woman returns to work and is treated like a faded version of her former self, it’s not just wrong, it’s bad business.

And yet here we are.

The good news? She left. She found a new role that valued her, paid her more, and gave her flexibility.

Let me say that again for the people at the back:
She left. She was rewarded. And she’s not looking back.

Because sometimes the system won’t change fast enough. And sometimes the only way to win is to walk away and build something better.

So if you're reading this and thinking, “Oh god, this is me. I came back and they gave me admin, crumbs, and a gaslighting sandwich” - know this:

It’s not in your head.
It’s not your fault.
And you are not the problem.

They are.

And your talents? Still there. Your fire? Still burning. And somewhere out there, there’s a company that’s not afraid of a woman who’s had a baby and still dares to want a career.

Send me your stories. Share this with someone who needs to know they’re not alone!

Let’s talk about the strange, unspoken awkwardness of maternity leave cover. It’s a weird concept, really. Like hiring your boyfriend a shiny new girlfriend to keep him entertained while you’re off growing a human. Someone else stepping into your role, poking around in your spreadsheets, and sitting in your chair, it’s unsettling. It felt like they were hiring someone to play "better me" while I was away.

My two maternity leaves couldn’t have been more different. Honestly, if the second one had gone like the first, Worn Out Working Mum would never have existed. The first time around, I had a dream manager. Truly, she was a unicorn - a mum herself who understood the madness. Sure, she had her flaws (who doesn’t?), but she filled me with confidence. She told me my job was secure, reminded me how valuable I was, and made it clear that I was appreciated. Plus, I worked with an amazing team of women who had my back. It was a golden time.

Of course, we had to hire maternity cover. My brilliant manager framed it as a good thing: “It shows the company values your work,” she said. And she was right. But when the new hire showed up, my hackles immediately went up. She was single, child-free, and had the kind of boundless energy that makes new mums want to cry quietly in the corner. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel territorial. There was a strong urge to metaphorically pee on all my stuff to mark my territory, but I was too busy growing a human.

To her credit, the maternity cover was good at her job - maybe a little over excited though. I worried she was angling for something more permanent. Not necessarily my job, but a job, and that was unsettling for me at the time (rightly or wrongly so!)

When I returned, my role was handed back to me (hooray!), but not without a catch. The maternity cover had said yes to everything. I mean, everything. Suddenly, I had to clean up the mess by saying no to things I physically couldn’t manage if I wanted to remain a functioning human being. It wasn’t her fault, really, but it made my return unnecessarily difficult. Thankfully, COVID hit, which scaled back the chaos (a rare pandemic silver lining).

She stayed on at the company, climbed the ranks, and honestly, good for her. I can respect someone who works hard without stepping on others to get ahead. She’s still there, working for the company that eventually booted me out. No hard feelings, though.

Now, maternity leave number two? Whole different story. New team, new director, and a vibe that felt less “let’s support our colleague” and more “let’s quietly shop for a new model.” Budget cuts meant they weren’t hiring a maternity cover this time. Instead, they planned to divvy up my work among the team. Pro tip: If this ever happens to you, fight to get your job back when you return. When workloads get passed around, people get possessive. They hold onto tasks out of fear for their own job security, leaving you with scraps.

When I came back, my once-glorious role had been sliced, diced, and handed off. Officially, there had been a “reorg.” In reality, I was shoved back into a junior position I’d outgrown years ago, without my supportive manager to soften the blow. I convinced myself it was fine. Being part-time, staying on UK hours, and having less responsibility sounded like the dream for a sleep-deprived mum. But deep down, I knew I was selling myself short.

The kicker? I eventually lost that job altogether. Hindsight is 20/20, and I now know I should’ve stood my ground. Everyone told me, “Take the easy road. You’re getting paid the same!” But here’s the thing: that “easy road” often leads to a dead end. Don’t let anyone undervalue you because you dared to do something magical: go grow a baby - something only women can do.

Actually Useful Tips for Managing Your Maternity Cover (or Lack Thereof)

1. Write Your Own Handover - But Strategically
Don’t just document what you do - highlight what only you can do well. Add notes like “this process is built around my client relationships” or “this requires in-depth knowledge of our brand voice” to signal your value. Think of it as future-you’s job security letter.

2. Define the Edges of the Role
Be crystal clear in your handover doc (and convos with your manager) about what’s not part of your role - because someone shiny and eager will say yes to things that were never your responsibility. Guess who’ll have to deal with that chaos when they leave?

3. Be Part of the Hiring Process (If You Can)
Ask to be involved in hiring or briefing your mat cover. Even if it’s just reviewing the JD or joining the interview, it sends a message: this isn’t a free-for-all, this is MY role temporarily on loan. Plus, you can help shape what good cover looks like - someone who’ll do the job, not try to redesign it.

4. Ask for a Written Role Review Before You Go
This is your receipt. A simple document that outlines your job title, key responsibilities, and current projects. Ask your manager to sign off on it. That way, if things “mysteriously shift” while you're away, you’ve got a paper trail.

5. Agree the Return Plan Before You Leave
Not just a “we’ll see how things are when you're back.” No. Set expectations now. Will you come back full-time? What hours? What flexibility? What projects will you pick up again? Put it in writing, even if it’s informal.

6. Choose Your KIT Days Strategically
KIT (Keep in Touch) days aren’t just coffee and catch-ups (LIES I’M LYING THEY ARE EXACTLY THAT TOO) but use one to shadow your mat cover if you can, join a key meeting, or review changes. You’ll see early warning signs of scope creep or role drift, and can gently start drawing your lines.

7. Don’t Be Afraid to Be Territorial (Professionally)
This is not petty - you’re protecting your career. If something feels off, say something. And if your mat cover is going for a permanent role, it’s okay to ask for clarity on how that affects you. Don’t just smile and hope for the best.

8. Document Everything When You Return
Who’s doing what now? What’s still yours? What’s changed? Write it down. If you’re asked to do a Frankenstein version of your old role, you want to be able to say: “This isn’t what we agreed - here’s what we discussed before I left.”

9. If They Don’t Hire Cover – Red Flag
Push back. Gently, politely, persistently. Ask: How will my work be managed? Who’s covering what? What support will the team have in my absence? If the plan is “everyone just pitches in,” that usually translates to “you’ll have to claw your job back later.”

10. Stop Being Grateful – Start Being Clear
Yes, you’re grateful to be on mat leave. No, that doesn’t mean they can sideline you. You’re not a temp. You’re a professional who built a career before kids. Act like it, even if you’re knackered and leaking milk.

11. And Finally… Don’t Wait to Be ‘Back to Normal’ to Advocate for Yourself
You don’t need to be “well rested” or “firing on all cylinders” to push back on unfair treatment. You can speak up while sleep-deprived and covered in muslin cloths. Your power doesn’t vanish just because your bra is now 87% structural engineering.

I had carefully crafted my life around job security, the kind of stability that comes with a remote role, part-time flexibility, and a boss who knew me. Meanwhile, my husband was flying through his career, while I felt like I’d been clipped at the wings. Sure, I’d passed up career opportunities and skipped promotions to be there for the kids, but one day, none of it mattered because I lost it all anyway.

And then I started thinking, "Why am I telling you this?" It’s not exactly the pep talk you were expecting, right? But here’s why: when you come back from maternity leave, the pressure to juggle work and motherhood is real. My advice? Don’t jump into a new role or promotion. Stick with what you know at first - trust me, those first 6-12 months after returning can be brutal.

However, what I regret most? Being complacent. After having my son, I forgot that I still had a place in the game. I didn’t have to let my career be something I used to do. I needed to remind myself that I was still allowed to feel passionate about my work, despite the nursery sicknesses, the exhaustion, and the chaos. I wasn’t just “working to live” I needed my work, even if I had convinced myself otherwise.

What I wish I’d known back then is that it’s never too late to pivot. Sure, my time has passed in some ways, but if you’re reading this, there might be a reason why. If you want to do something else, why not see what’s out there? The market is tough right now, but that doesn’t mean you should stop window shopping for better opportunities.

• Keep your CV updated. You never know when the perfect role might pop up.

• Is your current boss flexible enough to let you pick up your kids at 4 pm and finish up after bedtime? Spoiler: They might not be. But someone else could be.

• If you’ve been in the same company for years, your salary has likely stagnated. That’s not your fault - it’s just how it goes.

• You deserve to feel passionate about at least some of your work. It might feel like a fantasy, but trust me, it’s possible.

• Don’t sell yourself short. I thought I couldn’t run a team, manage a budget, or be a leader after motherhood. Well, guess what? I can. And so can you.

• Build your network. Seriously, do it. I didn’t, and I regret it. I was so focused on keeping my head down and surviving that I missed out on potential opportunities.

• Start writing. LinkedIn may feel a little awkward, but if you want to position yourself as an expert in your field, it’s time to get visible. Write, blog, share. The world won’t notice you if you don’t show up.

The reality is that job loss can happen to anyone, no matter how good you are at your job or how long you’ve been there. I’d like to think I’m not the only one who’s been at risk, and in some ways, the end of that job was the start of something different, Losing a job sucks, but it doesn’t have to define you.

I’ll tell you something: when I lost my job, I thought it was the end of the world. Now, I’m not saying it didn’t come with a hefty dose of panic (and maybe a few too many glasses of wine), but here’s what is true: I’m excited for the first time in years. My future is uncertain, my cash flow is a mess, and I’m still figuring it all out… but I don’t have that same kind of crushing anxiety anymore.

So, if you’re feeling stuck, maybe it’s time to remind yourself that motherhood doesn’t have to be a career break, it’s a career shift. It’s not just about surviving the day-to-day; it’s about finding new ways to thrive, despite what’s holding you back. And, for the love of coffee and dry shampoo, go for it. Your career is just as much yours now as it was before.

This week’s story from the Worn Out Working Mum community hits hard. Because it’s not just about a job, but because it’s about having your ambition quietly reassigned while you’re still leaking breastmilk and trying to remember your own address. It’s about being unmade at the very moment you’re becoming something more.

The price of having a baby? Apparently, it's your job. Your power. Your place at the table.

Here’s her story:

“I created my dream job. Went on mat leave. Came back, and a man was in my role… permanently.”

When I was pregnant, I had the rare opportunity to create my dream job from scratch. I developed the job profile, hired a talented team, built out project plans, and crafted a full strategic vision. It was an exciting time! People were applying specifically because they wanted to work with me. I poured my heart into it.

The day before I left for maternity leave, I presented everything, and it was approved. It felt like I had built something that really mattered.

But two months before I was scheduled to return, I was called into the office. That’s when I learned they had hired a man to take over my role, the job I created, and decided he would be staying in it permanently. I was being moved to a different project. Just like that, the work I had built from the ground up was no longer mine. I was devastated.

Adjusting to life as a working mum was already a huge transition. You’re running on little sleep, trying to navigate a new identity, and balancing guilt from all directions: guilt for leaving your baby, for not being fully present at work, for trying to juggle it all.

The new project they assigned me to was lower-key, which, to be fair, gave me some much-needed flexibility. But it also felt like a consolation prize.

That project eventually wrapped up, and now I’m in another role that doesn't excite me. It doesn’t challenge me, and it definitely doesn’t make the most of my skills. For a while, I tried to convince myself to be grateful, after all, I still had a job.

But as time goes on, I can’t shake the frustration. I built something meaningful. I earned that role. And it was taken from me at a time when I was most vulnerable.

Being a working mum means making constant compromises with your time, your energy, your ambitions.

But losing a job I created, simply because I went on maternity leave, still stings.

My take?

This is exactly what we mean when we talk about systemic discrimination. It’s not always loud or litigious, sometimes it’s quiet. Polite. “Strategic.” It hides behind phrases like:

• “We needed someone who could hit the ground running.”
  

• “You were on leave, so we had to make a decision.”
  

• “It made sense at the time.”
  

But what it really means is: you stepped away to do the hardest thing you’ll ever do, and we punished you for it.

And I know this happens everywhere.

If this has happened to you, if someone is promoted over your postpartum body, or handed your hard work to someone else - tell me. Tell us. Because naming it helps the next woman, the next mother see it faster.

Having mates who don’t have kids is like an initiation into parenthood. It's the ultimate reminder that your life is now dramatically, irreversibly different. When I had my son, many of my closest friends weren’t even considering babies yet. And that was fine, there was no pact that we’d all sync up our wombs like some sort of dystopian book club. I was definitely going early. In London, having a baby before 35 is basically a teen pregnancy. I’m actually surprised no one gave me a reality show.

And then we left London, just to top off my early-bird performance. Suddenly, everyone else was still living the dream, and we were in the suburbs, changing nappies and calling ourselves DFLs (Down From Londoners, for the uninitiated). We became those people. The ones who talk about the city like we’d survived it. “Did we grow up here?” Oh no, we’re from “London” cue smugness. Get a grip, 2017 Laura!

I’d stalk my friends’ Instagram accounts, often in tears, feeling replaced and left out. For clarity, this wasn’t their fault. Could I have gone on the girls’ trip to Ibiza? Absolutely not. I had a baby who needed me. Did I still want the invite? Yes. Was I acutely aware of my own ridiculousness? 100%. Were my friends allowed to make new mates? Obviously. Did I ugly cry into my baby’s sweet-smelling head anyway? Oh, you bet.

Because here’s the thing: when you become a parent, and your friends aren’t there yet, you’re thrust into a parallel universe. It’s like being born again - or dying, if we’re being melodramatic (which I will always be). Everything changes, and you can’t explain why. Your worlds don’t just shift; they separate, no matter how hard you try to keep them tethered. It’s not just the big things, like being tied to the baby monitor instead of a bottomless brunch, but the little things too. Suddenly, you have less in common. Their wild Saturday nights are your early Sunday mornings with Bluey. And no matter how much you love each other, it’s hard not to feel the distance growing.

So what advice would I give to the first-time mum surrounded by childless friends? First, let yourself mourn. You’re not just grieving a life you’ve left behind - you’re also grappling with a sense of displacement among people you love. Second, know that this weird, off-kilter phase doesn’t last forever. Friendships can drift, but they can also find their way back. Don’t take it personally when they make new friends. It’s okay to miss them. It’s okay to be angry. And it’s okay to leave the door open for when the time is right to reconnect.

Take comfort in the fact that your friendships are evolving, not disappearing. Some relationships will naturally fade, but others will deepen in ways you couldn’t have imagined. It’s a bit like re-potting a plant. Awkward at first, but with a little care, it might just thrive in a new way.

Now, to the childless friends… if you’re somehow here reading this, a few notes. First, please still invite us. Even if we say no 19 times in a row, don’t assume we’ve stopped wanting to be included. We’re just... busy. Like, can’t-sit-down-until-9-p.m. busy. Second, don’t tell us we’re moaning too much about motherhood. If we’re moaning, it’s because we’re too tired for toxic positivity. Third, keep messaging us. Even a quick “hey, how’s it going?” can mean the world.

And if, someday, you decide to have kids, remember us.

The truth? Freelance life wasn’t a dream I chased. It wasn’t a big bold decision that I made after weighing the pros and cons. It wasn’t some “amazing opportunity” handed to me on a silver platter. It was a reality check, a survival mode, a forced leap into the abyss because the workforce wasn’t going to let me in anymore. And you know what? That’s fine. I’m surviving. But let’s stop pretending that this is some magical “opportunity” just because I’m a woman who’s trying to make it all work.

I’m getting a bit fed up with the way this whole “freedom” thing is sold to us. I went to an event recently where someone said, “Well, as women, when we return from maternity leave, we have this amazing opportunity to reshape our lives - men don’t always get that.” Uh, no. That’s a hard pass from me. You want me to believe that having to leave my career and start from scratch is some kind of "opportunity"? No, no, no. It’s a hard reality of being a mum. It’s a punch to the gut wrapped in a glittery package, and I’m just not buying it anymore.

It’s been framed as a “gift” , this freedom that women get when they leave the workforce. But trust me, the reality is far more bleak. The way people talk about it makes it sound like it’s some blissful path to success and happiness. When really, it’s like being exiled, but with a nice bow on top. Freelance life, start-up life, whatever you want to call it, there’s no security. No sick pay, no support, no pension, no team. What you get is risk. And that risk comes because the workforce pushed us out.

Yet, people still celebrate this as some grand opportunity. The only thing that’s grand is how unhelpful these “opportunities” are in the real world. No one’s handing you a manual on how to survive the emotional rollercoaster of trying to balance a business with the overwhelming, never-ending job of motherhood. No one’s here to tell you about the fear of your next pay check or how isolating it feels to work from home all day with no one to bounce ideas off of, except maybe a toddler who’s just discovered glitter glue.

But here’s what’s really grinding my gears: why is it so acceptable for society to paint freelancing as some magical opportunity when the reality is, it’s just exile in disguise? It’s risky as hell. And it’s survival. A survival mode we’re pushed into because the workforce decided we weren’t worth the hassle anymore.

Now, I’ve been told by people that I should just be grateful for what I’ve had. "You’ve had time with your kids, you’ve made some money, so stop complaining." And apparently, that means I should stop wanting more. Stop wanting a career. Stop wanting financial security. Stop wanting to succeed. Just stop wanting.

Do you know what? I’m sick of it. Why is it so terrible for women to want more? Why does wanting to be successful, to be proud of our careers, or to be compensated for our work make us greedy, selfish, or ungrateful? I want to provide for my kids, to give them the security I didn’t (feel I) have growing up. I want to feel proud of my work, to achieve something meaningful, and, shocker, I want to be compensated for it.

I want to be clear: I’m not against freelancing, starting your own business, or going after the job you want. If that’s your choice, more power to you. But let’s stop pretending that losing our jobs, being pushed out of careers, or being forced to “pivot” is some grand opportunity. Losing your job is not an opportunity, it’s a harsh reality. And as much as I wish I had chosen the freelancing life, if I had wanted to, I would’ve done it. And you know what? Men can do it too. If a man wants something, he will get it. There’s no question. So why are we told we should be grateful when the same opportunities are handed to us in a pile of disappointment?

Rosie’s Story:

"I returned to work last year four months after having my son. I work at a startup in the US on the product team. I was very lucky to get that much time off. When I started, the company offered 14 weeks of maternity leave and I used all my vacation to take the longest amount of time possible. This year (and after three other women in the company also went on maternity leave), the company updated their policy to only give women 6 weeks off. When I was hired, I was actually already one month pregnant, but I didn’t tell them. I was terrified it would impact my chances of getting the job, so I kept it to myself. My first boss, who was based in the UK, was supportive when I told him. I later found out his wife was also expecting, which was comforting, but I had no idea what I was getting into.

I worked for three months before my boss and another manager went on "garden leave." Suddenly, I was the only Product Manager left in the company. I was juggling everything, working with engineering teams in both the US and EU, and managing markets from the US to Australia. It was a lot. But I kept pushing through.

When my first boss left, they reassigned someone from the sales team to be my new boss. He was intense, but surprisingly supportive about my pregnancy. In fact, he promoted me before I started my maternity leave, which was a huge confidence boost, and I got a nice pay bump to help with the incoming costs of a newborn.

But when I came back from maternity leave, everything had changed.

I had been managing the US markets, but when I returned, they reassigned me. The team had reorganized, and I had a new boss. A guy who was hired at the same level as me and should have been my coworker, but he had weaseled his way into a senior role while I was out and was now overseeing my work. He also created a new roadmap for the company, one that was completely different from what I had been promised before I left. I had even kept in touch with my coworkers, joining a call once a week to make sure I was in the loop and the new hires knew who I was. It didn't help.

The project I was supposed to be leading when I returned was pushed off for another year and a half, and surprise, my new boss was now taking over leading it. I was supposed to manage the team, but instead, I was "helping" him with it.

To make matters worse, two of my colleagues were fired. The new hire that was supposed to report to me was left in the lurch, and we were all left to pick up the slack. Meanwhile, the CEO, who seemed to take pleasure in publicly lecturing me, regularly questioned why things were taking longer than expected, even though the issues were entirely out of my control and we were understaffed. There was no support, and the daily pressure was unbearable.

I’ve been job hunting for 15 months now. I’ve had three interviews, but they were all dead ends. It’s a harsh reality when you’re in a job you hate but can't afford to leave. My husband and I both work and we can’t survive on just one income.

And here’s the hardest part: I don’t have family support. I’m one of four siblings, but my parents always visit my brother and sister, who live hours away, but never come to help us. It’s like we’re the black sheep of the family. I don’t have any friends to turn to, mom friends or otherwise, and it’s been incredibly lonely.

Returning to work after becoming a mother is so much harder than I ever thought it would be. We’re not the same person we were before. My son is my world, and I would do anything to spend more time with him, but right now, it’s all about survival.

So, I keep pushing forward, even though it feels like everything’s stacked against me."

Rosie’s story isn’t just one of struggles at work, it’s a reality that so many of us face. The pressure, the lack of support, and the feeling of being stuck in a job we can’t leave. But it’s also a story of perseverance. It’s a reminder that, no matter how tough things get, we keep going because we have no other choice.

If you would ever like to share your story get in touch with me here. X

The Worst:

A Big, Bulky Buggy

C-sections and heavy strollers do not mix. Seriously, I could’ve joined a gym with the amount of effort it took to get this beast into the car. And let’s not even talk about the bassinet, which my son never used, because, surprise! He preferred to be attached to me at all times like a koala. So I ended up with this monstrosity of a buggy that had me looking like I was about to join a stunt double training camp every time I folded it. And, you know, there was no place to store it in the house. Great decision, Laura.

Baby Wipe Warmer

Do I even need to explain? Hormones and exhaustion led me to believe this was an essential. It wasn’t. I didn’t even take it out of the box. The universe (and my rational brain) intervened and saved me from myself. Bye, wipe warmer. Bye forever.

Sterilisers

Oh, look at me, trying to be fancy and organised with a huge steriliser that took up half the kitchen. What I really needed was something small and practical, like a microwave steriliser that doesn’t take over your entire life.

Baby Shoes

Sweet, naive Laura thought baby shoes were a thing. My child barely kept socks on, let alone any tiny leather loafers that I paid far too much for. But hey, they were cute. That’s about it.

The Best:

Slip-On Shoes

Look, I get it. You’re laughing. But have you tried untangling your shoe laces with a baby on your hip who would rather not be put down? Exactly. Slip-on shoes have saved me. My ultimate go-to? Birkenstocks. I’m not saying they’re perfect, but they’re pretty close when it comes to comfort and ease of use. And in winter? GANNI rubber boots, because why not? I’m investing in shoes I wear every damn day.

AirPods

I thought I was fine without these during my first baby. Then came my second. My sanity needed podcasts. Podcasts are my saviours. My AirPods are basically my lifeline. No exaggeration. They’re like the world’s smallest, least obvious escape hatch when you're stuck in a house with a kid who just learned to scream for 45 minutes straight. Worth every penny.

Leggings

I know. It’s obvious. But hear me out. It’s not just about comfort. These children are quick. They’re sweaty and exhausting. Jeans? Not. Happening. Let those bad boys hibernate, and embrace leggings. I do like Varley’s FreeSoft Collection (when I’m feeling flush, which is rare), but let’s be honest, Amazon leggings have become my best friend.

Elemis Face Balm

This is where I pretend I have my life together. Washing my face with something that smells nice? Bliss. Even if my “glamorous” life consists of removing mascara and toddler snot from my face in the same motion. But honestly, it removes makeup without the extra step of makeup remover. Small wins, people. Small wins.

The Grape Cutter / Apple Corer

Yes, I know you’re rolling your eyes, but just hear me out. These things were bought in a moment of intense parenting anxiety. Have you ever feared your kid might choke on a grape that you forgot to slice properly? Well, these gadgets saved me from that panic. So yeah, they’re on the list. You're welcome.

The Baby Zen Stroller

Okay, I did not want this. My husband bought it without consulting me. I was convinced it was a waste of money. Fast forward to now - this thing has traveled more miles than my luggage. And you know what? I’m eating my words. It’s still going strong.

Tony Box

I wasn’t sold on this either. I mean, a little speaker that plays music when you put character figures on top? But my son? He loves it. It’s his bedtime go-to, and it helps me get both kids to sleep without needing a third arm. If you’re in the “will this actually work?” phase, it does.

So, there you have it. The good, the bad, and the ridiculous mum purchases. Now tell me, what’s the best thing you bought that you thought you’d regret? Or the most ridiculous item you fell for? Share, so we can all laugh together.

P.S. I’m legally obligated to let you know that some links are affiliate links, which means I might get a teeny tiny percentage (like, 1p, don’t get too excited) if you click on the links. Slowly but surely, I’ll build my 1p empire. Time to buy more Birkenstocks.

That tiny dopamine hit had me thinking: What if I started posting more? Social Media could be my secret corner of the internet where I overshare without consequence. No one would find me! Except, of course, they absolutely would.

One day, after losing my third piece of work to someone else, I hit my breaking point. I made a video (with my actual face in it) and something amazing happened: I found my people. Other mums who also felt like friendless zombies trying to juggle work, life, and sticky children. I gained a few followers and declared I’d post daily for a year. That was March 2024.

Here’s the thing, though: I cannot lie. I’m not one of those “here’s how I seamlessly returned to work and crushed it” types. Nope. I’m the person yelling, “It’s not seamless, it’s fucking insane!” I started posting about the mess - the mental load, the exhaustion, the way society gaslights working mums and people connected. But then the anxiety crept in.

What if work found me? What if my boss saw me ranting about an awful week? What if Karen from finance stumbled across my videos and assumed she was the Karen I was referring to? The fear of being “found out” made me second-guess every post. When someone said, “I saw your video,” it felt like a polite “Are you okay?” wrapped in judgement.

And yet, I kept posting. Why? Because work didn’t feel safe either. Redundancies were everywhere, and the future looked shakier than a toddler holding a glass. My little corner of the internet became my sanity lifeline.

When the call finally came and I lost my job, I definitely felt panic, shock, and some sort of freedom all at once. Suddenly, the internet was mine without the constant fear of discovery.

Here’s the truth: I’m not the kind of person you’d peg as someone who posts her face on the internet. I’ve never been “popular.” I wasn’t even “picked” in teams for PE. But somewhere along the way, I realised I had to stop caring what people thought.

We all give up so much of ourselves to motherhood, work, and caregiving. That’s not optional. But what is optional is letting other people’s opinions hold you back. If you want to write that cookbook, start. If you want to knit a jumper the size of Wales, grab the needles.

This isn’t me telling you to quit your job or make reckless decisions. Bills are real, mortgages are real, and kids eat a LOT. But I am telling you to believe in yourself. Find space, however small, to do the thing you’ve always wanted to do. The ones who love you will cheer you on. And the ones who don’t? Let them judge from the sidelines. They’re not paying your bills anyway.

Now, go. Do the thing.