The other morning, I was making dinner at 7 AM. Because sometimes that’s the only time it happens.
Luca looked up at me and said, “Help.” He wanted in.
My first instinct? I don’t have time for this.
My second? When did I become someone who never has time?
The chicken was half-seasoned. My coffee was still sitting there, untouched. The morning routine was about to kick into high gear. Every part of me wanted to keep going, stay efficient, move faster.
But I didn’t.
I pulled up his learning tower, let him climb in, and together, we made an absolute mess. Seasoning everywhere, chicken probably way too salty, counters a disaster. And still, somehow, the best dinner prep I’ve had in months.
Nobody tells you that being a working mom isn’t about the big decisions. It’s about the tiny ones. The ones that come at you nonstop—where you have to choose between getting shit done and being in the moment.
Some days, I feel like I’m nailing it. Other days, I’m standing in the kitchen in yesterday’s workout clothes, handing my kid a dino nugget while answering emails and hoping Netflix buys me 20 more minutes.
Both of those versions of me exist. Both of them are trying.
Before I became a mom, I thought I understood time management. I had systems, schedules, routines. Motherhood laughed at all of it.
Now, it’s about something else. Being fully there for five minutes instead of half-there for an hour. Finding the tiny moments in the middle of the madness.
Letting go of the idea that balance is even a thing.
You see those moms who seem to have it all together—the homemade meals, the thriving career, the spotless house, the kids who never melt down in public. But you don’t see the mess behind the scenes. The trade-offs. The moments when everything falls apart.
That night, when we finally ate that disaster of a meal, Luca looked so proud. Like he’d made something amazing.
And you know what? He did.