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?

It was 2021.

We had to pick up the toddler from preschool. It wasn’t going well. Actually, it was going terribly. My sweet, empathetic child had somehow transformed into a biter. And not just any biter. A Grade 10 biter. This wasn’t a casual nibble; this was his go-to communication style. But, hey, not with us - well, except for that one time he took a huge bite out of my shoulder. And let me tell you, when a toddler bites your shoulder, the most normal human response is not “Oh, how sweet!” It’s more along the lines of, “I will throw this badger-sized toddler straight out the window.” (I did not throw him. I did scream, though. A lot.)

We had a biter. Fu*k. I did not see this one coming. We’re both “nice” humans, for heaven’s sake. My husband has a death stare so intense it could make a grown man confess to crimes he didn’t even commit. (I mean, seriously, it’s like the stare of a thousand judgments.) And me? I have a short temper, but as far as I knew, neither of us was walking around traumatising others with our sharp, gnashing teeth.

Here’s the thing: this is where I learned a valuable lesson. Before you decide to procreate with someone, you’ve gotta do a background check. You know, if you can. It’s all well and good to check the obvious boxes - kind? Good teeth? No signs of heart issues or murderous tendencies? Sure, check those. But here are some other traits I now know should absolutely be on the list. Or at the very least, things you should prepare for:

• Were they a biter as a child? (Spoiler alert: Their children may also be.)
  
  

• Did they get sick a lot as a child? (Because if you didn’t get the memo, toddlers are walking petri dishes.)
  
  

• Do they get car sick? (It can be hereditary… I’m the car sick kid.)
  
  

• Were they that kid who always chewed on their sleeves?
  
  

• Do they get cranky when they haven’t had a snack in two hours?
  
  

• Did they ever attempt to bite a stranger at an arcade while their mother loudly proclaimed, “I’m not even sure he’s mine!”? (Seriously, that’s a true story. But more on that in a second…)
  
  

Now, here’s the fun part. My husband? He was a biter. And he’d kept that little tidbit to himself for nearly a decade. But,, once, he bit a complete stranger. The stranger probably thought it was an attack from a rabid ferret. His mom? She apparently declared, “He’s not even mine. I’m fostering him.” Which, honestly, is a response that screams, “This wasn’t the first time this happened, and it won’t be the last.”

Being a parent is funny, though. I was raised to be perfect - to behave, keep up public appearances, and avoid any embarrassing displays of bad manners. But now? Now I’m learning that being a parent means unlearning everything I thought I knew about perfection. It means accepting that my kid is not an extension of me, and if he wants to run around at 2.5 years old biting other children, I needed to figure out why - and, you know, help him through it. You also need to be prepared for the daily shame at the preschool gate when you ask, “Did they have a good day?” and the response is always, “No.” The. Shame. I mean, seriously, if that doesn’t make you question your entire existence, I don’t know what will.

But let’s not skirt around the fact that he was hurting people. I’ve since heard from a reliable source (aka the preschool) that the other kids were being a bit rough with him. But, let’s face it - biting is a no-go for everyone involved. So, when we showed up, on the verge of tears, hearing that the day had been a bad one, guess what? He cried too. Because he knew the reward system (beautiful non-bitey reward system) was officially out the window. No ice cream. No treats. And that, my friends, is where the tears really started!

So, where am I going with this?

It was a phase. A phase I don’t ever want to relive. Honestly, it was a sh*tshow, and it got both my husband and I completely down as we felt like we had zero control over it. But here’s what actually helped:

1. His communication wasn’t great at that age, so when kids took his toys, he didn’t know how to handle it. Cue the teeth.
   
   

2. We worked closely with his preschool to figure out what was causing the rage moments.
   
   

3. We praised good, non-bitey behavior. (We did NOT focus on punishment - because, well, that would’ve just made him bite US more. Joking)
   
   

4. We also ended up rewarding him with an ice lolly every night for a while. You know, for positive reinforcement. (Parenting at its finest.)
   
   

Eventually, once he could communicate more, the biting stopped. It was a phase, a long one, but it ended. And you know what? I was worried he’d grow up into this rage-fueled, wild child. But guess what? He didn’t. He’s kind, loving, and, most importantly, not bitey. I’ll take that win any day.

Which, now I think about it, is exactly how every good ghost story begins.

But this one doesn’t start with a creaky attic or an icy hand brushing my shoulder at midnight. No. This begins, as all truly haunting tales do, with a toddler mid-regression.

She’s 2.5, which means she’s currently possessed by the spirit of pure chaos. She’s got the energy of someone who’s never paid a gas bill and it shows - displacing furniture, logic, and my will to live. Just last night, she chewed up her dinner and dramatically spat it onto the kitchen door. I tried to turn it into a gentle life lesson: “Okay darling, we don’t do that, let’s clean it up together?”

She nodded (very) sweetly… and then f*cking launched the food across the room like a deranged little trebuchet. At the cat.

This is the demon I live with. (And yes, I adore her. She’s wonderful and clever and hilarious!)

But the ghost thing. Well… That’s new.

It started a few weeks ago. She asked me to draw a baby and a ghost. “Baby cry,” she said, all serious. Then, every night:

“I scared.” “Ghost.”

Excuse me?

Now, we don’t talk about ghosts in our house. It’s not October (yet). There’s no spooky TV. I even coiled into nursery all casual-like: “Heyyy quick one, you guys reading Paranormal Activity for Toddlers or…?”

They looked confused. “No… no ghosts here.”

Brilliant.

Now, I don’t believe in ghosts. But our house is… how do I put this… vintage. Parts of it are from the 1400s. It creaks, it moans, it’s charmingly lopsided. If you were casting a quaint-yet-unnerving setting for a ghost movie, this place would get the part.

But I’ve never felt scared here. Not even on the darkest of night feeds. I love this home. It feels safe - warm, even.

Unlike, say, my parents old house.

Now that place? Fully haunted.

I once sat in their kitchen and saw a woman in the corner. Just for a moment. I brushed it off. Then my mum, without prompting, said, “Funnnny. I think I saw someone there the other day too.”

Oh. Okay then.

And it escalated. The dog started growling at the exact same spot. The TVs turned on by themselves. One night, a radio (unplugged) started blasting white noise like it was trying to summon Bloody Mary via Smooth FM.

Eventually my mum shouted, “ENOUGH!” and, weirdly, that worked. The ghost packed its bags and left.

Now back to my daughter: in addition to the nightly ghost updates, she’s also saying “I sick.” But she’s not. She’s fine. Warm and sweaty, yes. Like a living hot water bottle who demands cuddles, snacks, and several blankets while watching Bluey for the 89th time.

So I’m stuck in limbo trying to decide:
Do I call the doctor… or a medium?

Honestly, it’s probably a growth spurt. Or a leap. Or a regression. Or a poltergeist. Who even knows anymore.

All I do know is that I love a ghost story - I just don’t want one living in my daughter’s wardrobe, disrupting my sleep and throwing invisible balls across the room.

And no, the ghost still hasn’t returned my calls.

And yet, despite the dreary pretend, the emotional labour, the career hits, the stitches, the literal bleeding… I did have some level of maternity rights and leave. Because women before me didn’t.

And one woman who made sure the world knew about that was Margaret Llewelyn Davies.

Margaret wasn’t a mum herself. But she spent decades gathering the real, unpolished stories of the ones who were. In 1915, she published Maternity: Letters from Working Women - a book full of first-hand accounts from mothers who laboured in every sense of the word.

A group of exhausted women with ink stained fingers telling the world what it actually meant to give birth with nothing to eat and even less in cash to your name.

“I got up too soon after confinement, and it has left me with a weakness that I suffer from now… it is more knowledge and help that women need.”

BTW - She’s talking about permanent pelvic injury. But make it Victorian. And no NHS. And zero postpartum physio.

Another wrote:

“I have always had to do my own work up to the last… I do hope we get the £7 10s., and then there will be many who will not suffer as poor women have done in the past.”

You could almost mistake it for hope. But I feel like it is mostly resignation.

And this one:

“Much of the suffering entailed in maternity would be got rid of if women married with some knowledge of what lay before them… It is not the women’s fault that they are ignorant.”

Not the women’s fault. Let’s say that again. Not the women’s fault.

These women didn’t get “maternity leave.” They got “maternity please-just-don’t-fire-me.” They gave birth and went straight back to factory floors, to scrubbing, to nursing other people’s babies while bleeding from their own delivery.

And yet, they wrote.

They put pen to paper. In the middle of all that labour and loss and love and leaking, they wrote.

And Margaret Llewelyn Davies listened. She gathered hundreds of their letters and published them. And suddenly, middle-class politicians couldn’t pretend not to know anymore. The book was a bestseller. And it changed things. Not overnight, but enough.

“The child is the asset of the nation, and the mother the backbone. Therefore, I think the nation should help to feed and keep that mother, and so help to strengthen the nation…”

This was a working-class mum. No PR firm. No Instagram. Just a backbone worn down by birth, raising a generation that would one day shape a welfare state.

Why am I sharing this?

Because I needed to remind myself.

The small rest bite we fight for now is built on the exhaustion of women who never got it.

The leave we demand today exists because others were denied it.

The right to speak out is ours only because they refused to stay silent.

We keep fighting - because silence was never an option, and progress is never enough.

So to them:

To the women who gave birth on cold floors.

Who went back to work six days later.

Who stitched together lives with barely a thread.

Who wrote for us.

This one’s for you.

Thank you.

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.

So, there we were, sweltering in the hospital waiting room for what felt like a decade. Six hours passed, tests were done, and they declared me “fine” before sending us home. Brilliant, I thought, until a few hours later when they called, firmly demanding I come back. “You have preeclampsia,” they said. Oh, lovely.

Back to the hospital we went, for the second time that day. I met a rotating cast of doctors and midwives, who collectively agreed that I needed to be induced. “He’s breech,” I informed them, because apparently, no one had read my file. “You can’t induce me; he’s breech!” They exchanged awkward glances, as if I’d just announced I was having an alien baby.

Now, let me set the scene: It was September, peak baby season. (Pro tip: Don’t conceive a baby at Christmas unless you enjoy being on an overrun maternity ward. Nine months post-festive cheer is an absolute logistical nightmare.) The hospital was packed. People were practically queuing in the corridors to give birth. The whole thing felt more like a poorly managed music festival than a place to deliver human life.

I wasn’t ready. I’d planned a serene water birth with gas and air, bolstered by the delusions of hypnobirthing audio books. My birth plan was, in hindsight, comedy gold. But all of that went out the window when the doctors announced they’d be doing an ECV - an external cephalic version, which is a fancy term for trying to wrestle your baby into the right position from the outside. I’d read about it. It sounded barbaric and risky, and they weren’t even asking if it was something I wanted.

“No,” I said firmly. My husband smiled, because we’d already agreed this was a hard pass.

“It’s the best chance for a safe delivery,” they pushed.

“No,” I repeated, louder this time.

That’s when they decided to lock me on the ward like a hormonal hostage. Four days of monitoring, during which my organs were apparently on the verge of mutiny. I begged to go home, sobbed into my pillow, and generally made a nuisance of myself. The hospital, however, was so overrun they could barely manage emergency C-sections, let alone my sort of semi “scheduled” one. I was stuck.

Finally, they gave me steroid shots for the baby’s lungs and promised a slot the next day. By some miracle, they allowed me to go home overnight, with strict instructions to return immediately if anything felt off. I spent the evening in the bath, holding my bump and thinking, This time tomorrow, he’ll be here. Also, Oh God, they’re going to slice me open like a Christmas turkey.

As I lay there, I thought back to the hippy midwife - the one who wanted me to smoke my feet - and realised she’d probably saved both our lives. Who knew?

The next morning, it was go time. I decided to drive us there, because despite being practically blind with nerves and due for major surgery, I still considered myself the safer driver. My husband’s new licence and questionable skills didn’t inspire much confidence. It was an unseasonably warm September day, and I was shaking like a leaf. The nurse helpfully quipped, “Well, you shouldn’t have had a September baby.”
“He’s supposed to be October,” I muttered bitterly. “Take it up with my uterus.”

I felt like my body had completely failed me. Preeclampsia only ends one way: with birth. Otherwise, your organs just slowly clock out, and the placenta decides it’s done with this whole keeping-the-baby-alive business. My body was already halfway out the door, and I felt so utterly betrayed.

I was called in for the operation, and the anaesthetist turned out to be a giant of a man who looked like Santa Claus. “You’ll be fine,” he assured me, wielding a needle so enormous I stupidly looked at it. NEVER LOOK AT THE NEEDLE. I nearly vomited. My husband’s face wasn’t much help either, it was a perfect mirror of my horror.

What we didn’t know then was that my spine is slightly curved, which meant they had to jab me three times before the anaesthetic worked. Three! By the time they succeeded, I was ready to apologise for every sin I’d ever committed, just to make it stop.

Finally, the screen went up, and the surgery began. I didn’t want to see a thing, and mercifully, I didn’t. The sensations were… odd. I could feel something happening, but it wasn’t extreme pain. Then, I heard it: the first cry. My son was out. I couldn’t see him yet, so I begged, “Is he okay?” Yes. He was perfect.

They placed him on my chest, and it was instant love. My husband took him for a bit while they patched me up. I’d lost a lot of blood - enough to make them consider a transfusion, though thankfully I didn’t need one. The real kicker came when they shifted me from the surgical bed. Apparently, the anaesthetic hadn’t fully worked, because I moved my legs almost entirely on my own, much to the horror of the staff. (I was literally in a pool of my own blood. Gravy vibes, but less festive.)

When my husband returned with our son, I was shaking uncontrollably. I was convinced I’d accidentally give him shaken baby syndrome just by holding him. A nurse assured me he’d be fine. And he was. He was absolutely perfect and decided he wasn’t leaving my chest for three months. But that’s a story for another day.

We’d struggled to have our son - not infertility, exactly, but a repeated heartbreak that comes when your body just doesn’t hold on. By the time I got pregnant with him, I was a jittery ball of anxiety, but things calmed a bit after I hit the second trimester. The doctors assured me I was no longer high-risk, and I even started to enjoy pregnancy - well, as much as anyone can enjoy knowing that a small human is preparing to make their grand exit via your vagina.

My son was due in October, my favourite month. I envisioned walks in the park, crisp leaves crunching underfoot, and me pushing my glorious, absurdly heavy, overly expensive buggy. (A rookie mistake I’d come to regret but didn’t yet know.) By August, though, the UK was in the midst of a heatwave, the kind that turns our collective British grumbling into a national sport. My husband and I took cooling dips in the sea, which were less “relaxing swims” and more “trying not to think about the sewage reports.” Glamorous stuff, really.

Then came the swelling. At first, I didn’t think much of it. It was hot, I was pregnant - of course I’d puff up. But it wasn’t just a bit of puffiness; it was full-on sausage feet. My trusty Birkenstocks were on the last hole and still cutting into me like torture devices. My sandals! Not even proper shoes! I’d already removed my wedding rings for fear of having them sawed off in A&E, so I figured I was just winning at pregnancy prep.

I was still commuting from Kent to London when I could, because clearly, I had something to prove to myself - and demanding seats on the tube like an absolute tyrant. I didn’t even need a “Baby on Board” badge; my mere presence radiated, “Don’t even think about making me stand.” Then, one day, everything went blurry. Properly blurry. I couldn’t read the tube map, which was alarming because even though I rarely needed it, I could always see it.

At this point, I was seeing my midwives more frequently. It was a rotating cast of them, so I didn’t have a dedicated person. On my last visit, they skipped the urine test because they’d done one not long before. “All looks good,” they said cheerily. Spoiler: not good.

The next symptoms crept in like uninvited guests. Headaches. Nausea. A sudden lack of appetite. But again, I chalked it all up to late pregnancy - what did I know? No one in my close circle had been pregnant before, and the only people who had were my mum and aunties, who did it all decades ago without a whisper of complaint (lies).

At my 36-week appointment, I met a new midwife. My son was still breech, but she assured me he had time to flip. “Sure,” I thought, “he won’t. He’s already as stubborn as me.” Then she suggested smoking the bottoms of my feet to help him turn. I kid you not. Smoking. My. Feet. I’m all for a bit of spiritualism - I’d done acupuncture and manifested a baby while we were trying… but this felt like taking it too far. I nodded politely and resolved to let gravity and modern medicine handle it.

Then came the blood pressure check: high. “Are you nervous?” she asked. No. (I lied.) “Let’s try again,” she said. I was sweating and fuming in the tiny, sweltering room, already late for work, and suddenly desperate to escape her ramblings about pregnancy yoga. She sent me off for a urine sample, which, let’s be honest, is always a humiliating endeavour. They never give you a cup, do they? Just a tiny tube and the hope you’ve got excellent-level aim.

I waddled back with my pitiful contribution, and as soon as she tested it, the atmosphere shifted. “Blurred vision? Headaches? Swelling?” she fired at me. Check. Check. Check. “You need to go to hospital now,” she said briskly. “You’ve got high protein in your urine.”

Brilliant. My husband was literally doing his driving test at that exact moment. It was his umpteenth attempt, and of course, this one mattered the most because we had a baby incoming and I couldn’t bloody drive myself home from the hospital.

I called him: “Did you pass?”
“YES!” he replied triumphantly.
“Thank God. We’re going to the hospital.”

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.