The Guilt I’m Done Apologizing For

Let me say something I’ve never actually said out loud.

I love my work. Genuinely. Not in the way you’re supposed to say you love your work — not the LinkedIn version where everything is a “passion” and a “mission” and a “privilege.” I mean I actually love it. The conversations, the breakthroughs, the moment someone finally sees themselves clearly. That part lights me up.

And I used to feel guilty about that.

Because I’m a mother. And the story we tell mothers — especially solo mothers — is that every hour you give to something outside your child is an hour you owe back in apology. That ambition is acceptable only if it’s sufficiently explained, sufficiently sacrificed for. That loving your work is fine, as long as you also look tired enough from doing it.

I’m done with that story.

My son hasn’t asked me why I work so much. He’s never sat me down and demanded an explanation. But I’ve had the conversation in my head a hundred times — the one where I have to justify the early mornings, the coaching calls, the side of me that exists outside of being his mother. I’ve pre-apologized for things he hasn’t even accused me of yet.

And somewhere along the way, I realized that’s not something he needs from me. What he needs is a mother who models what it looks like to live a life that means something. To keep going even when it’s hard. To do work that matters, and to own it without shrinking.

Being a solo parent didn’t kill my ambition. It clarified it. I’m not doing this in spite of him — I’m doing it because of him. And for me. Both are allowed. Both are true at the same time.

The guilt isn’t gone. I won’t pretend it is. It still shows up on the mornings I leave early and the evenings I’m answering messages at the dinner table. But I’ve stopped treating it as evidence that I’m doing something wrong.

It just means I care. About him, and about myself.

Women aren’t supposed to need both. But we do. And it’s about time we stopped apologizing for it.