The Guilt We Carry — and the Moments That Change It

There’s a particular kind of guilt that working mothers know intimately. It’s quiet, persistent, and shows up in places it has no business being — airport lounges, hotel rooms, late-night Zoom calls, or moments when you’re pulled between the work you’re proud of and the people you love more than anything.

When my kids were little, that guilt whispered:
You’re missing too much.
Other moms are doing it better.
They’ll remember the absence, not the effort.

And now that they’re grown, I’ve learned something I wish I could’ve told my younger self:
Our presence isn’t measured by the number of moments we’re physically there for, but by the consistency of love we’ve shown across their entire lives.

Still, even with adult children, the guilt pops up in unexpected ways.

Recently, while I was across the pond, my son called because the power steering on his car was acting up — the kind of problem that would’ve sent me into mom-mode instantly if I’d been home. He didn’t know what to do. He asked questions. And I felt that old familiar ache:
I should be there.
I should be helping.
I should be the one handling this.

But I wasn’t.
And life — as it tends to do — kept going.

What happened next surprised me in the best way. He reached out to his grandparents, who stepped in with that steady, loving presence only grandparents can pull off. Grandpa did all the research, got him a tow truck, and ensured they got him to where he needed to go. They supported him. They filled the gap without making it feel like a gap at all.

And my son?
He figured it out.
He navigated the situation.
He made decisions.
He showed up for himself.

Somewhere between his updates and my jet-lagged replies, that guilt softened… because I realized he didn’t need me to rescue him. He needed the confidence to handle life — and he had it.

And that’s when it struck me:
Maybe the goal was never to be everything.
Maybe the goal was to raise someone who could do everything they needed to do — even when I’m seven hours ahead.

As a working mother — especially one in events, where “normal hours” is more of a suggestion — I’ve spent years worrying that the things I missed mattered more than the example I set.

But watching my son navigate real life, with a network of support around him and his own capability stepping forward, reminded me of something simple and true:

Kids grow from the whole ecosystem that loves them — not just one person.
And we grow, too.

Working-mom guilt probably never disappears completely. But moments like this soften it. They remind us that the love we poured in, even when we were stretched thin and running on fumes, took root.

So if you’re carrying that guilt today, here’s what I’d tell you:

You’re not failing — you’re modeling.
You’re not absent — you’re providing.
You’re not selfish — you’re human.

Our kids don’t need us to be everywhere.
They just need us to be ourselves, loving, imperfect, resilient, and deeply present in the ways that matter.

I’m proud of my kids. And I’m proud of the version of me that made it here, too.