Working and motherhood was never supposed to be an easy combination, but I was unaware just how hard it would be.
I found out I was pregnant five years into my job as a pulltabber. The money was excellent especially for a 23-year-old whose only responsibility was the most easy-going dog. The job was 10+ hours of standing, climbing up and down a stepstool, counting money and tiny cardboard tabs. I got to make people laugh, put my psych degree to use while I played therapist, and learned to have thick enough skin to handle someone who is just a little too drunk.
It was fun most nights, but it slowly started eating away at my core.
A few months into my pregnancy, an entire brawl broke out in the bar. Men, women, staff…everyone was jumping in trying yet failing to get it under control. Eventually the fight moved outside while I was on the phone with our local PD. Suddenly, guns were out and shots were fired. Those still inside the bar were screaming, running, hiding, crying, and I was yelling to get to the back of the bar while trying to explain what just unfolded to the police.
No one was hurt, the cops arrived, and before we knew it the night was over.
And there we were just trying to pick up the giant trays of Smucker’s jams that had been thrown everywhere. Tables and chairs had been flipped over, some broken, TVs were crooked, dishes were on the ground, staff were bleeding and bruised. I finally sat down and as the adrenaline wore off, I realized just how much pain I was in. My stomach was cramping, my legs were throbbing, my heart felt like it was going to burst, and a migraine from hell was setting in.
I thought I was going to lose my baby in that moment. I’d already experienced an early miscarriage a couple years prior and had been told my chances of conceiving and carrying to term were slim to none—so I thought this was it. It wasn’t, though. My sweet girl was just fine, I however, was not.
After that night, my nervous system never really calmed back down. There had been a lot of fights, drunken mishaps, regular occurrences with some aggressive randoms, but it never shook me until I started feeling the weight of motherhood. My baby was as safe as she could be in my belly, but all I could think about was what could happen.
No one plans on subjecting themselves to bar brawls while pregnant, but was I putting my daughter at risk by keeping that job? My first experience of “mom guilt” was uprooting the life I’d been so comfortable living.
In the following weeks I’d grown hyperaware of everything and everyone, constantly bracing for something to go wrong. A customer popping a balloon nearly sent me spiraling. Raised voices caused panic and goose bumps.
Shortly after the incident, my partner and I visited my family where they asked us to move across the state to be with them. Since I was already looking for a way out, we decided to go through with the move. We all bought and reopened a small-town bar and grill, my dad was diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer, I had the baby, my dad had open heart surgery, he beat cancer, my partner worked 4 hours away and came home only on the weekends. I went back to work two days a week, three weeks post-partum, then resumed full-time at twelve weeks.
And I absolutely hated my life.
When I wasn’t physically at work, I was still working. Running errands, managing our social media, designing menus, signs, ads. I was anxious, depressed, constantly crying. I never felt like my partner or my child were safe unless I was with them. I even fell asleep while doing paperwork in the office. I was always there, always available, but I was never present.
I quickly gained 80 pounds, constantly eating. If I could eat, I could sit, and if I could sit, I didn’t have to answer questions, or phone calls, or think. I stopped showering often, even brushing my teeth felt like torture. I rarely looked in the bathroom mirror because I didn’t recognize myself, and I hated who I saw.
Looking back, a lot of this was probably post-partum depression, but like most mothers will tell you—it’s hard to see it while you’re in the thick of it.
My daughter’s first birthday came before I was ready. I knew I couldn’t continue down this path. I’d struggled with suicidal ideation and self-harm as a teenager, and I recognized the familiar pull toward that dark place. My partner was equally drowning.
So, we left.
We moved back across the state. He took a job at the shipyard and I at a craft taphouse. We worked opposite shifts because childcare wasn’t an affordable option, but for the first time in what felt like a century, I could breathe.
Soon though, that job turned into more than I had signed up for. What started as three, four-hour shifts a week turned into four, then five, then six. I went from server to bartender to shift lead to marketing manager to front-of-house-manager—all while still working regular serving shifts three days a week on the floor. When I wasn’t clocked in, I was marketing at home. Within a year, I was right back where I’d started.
Burned out, disconnected, empty. So, I quit.
With enough money saved to cover a few months of bills, I walked away from another job that was quietly killing me. I wasn’t showing up as a partner or a mom. I was neglecting my health, my pets, and myself, again. I was irritable, exhausted, and emotionally unavailable.
In the four months since choosing myself and my family, I’ve learned how to be a human again. I cook, I clean, I craft, I care for my daughter, and I’m finally able to manage my dog’s dietary and skin needs, as well as my own health. I exist without constantly feeling like I’m failing the most important people in my life.
And still, there’s a mountain of guilt.
It’s so confusing to go from working ten-plus hour shifts, making great money, thriving in chaos, to struggling to face the public or crying on a mediocre Tuesday. I was in survival mode for two years, and when I finally stopped, everything I’d suppressed and ignored came to the surface with force.
Those first few weeks at home were raw and emotional, feeling the weight of not contributing financially, but I also value what this pause has given us as a family. My partner comes home to peace, our daughter is thriving with consistency, and our home feels manageable instead of overwhelming.
One day, I’ll go back to work. For now, I’m learning to accept and to love this era of just being a mom, a partner, and a person again.