You're just a stay-at-home mom

and other lies my brain is telling me

I quit my job yesterday.

For the past six years, I’ve worked in various operations roles at a major sportswear company. The most recent was a stint in data quality and analytics. I’ve never loved the work, but it was a good job and I was lucky enough to have really amazing managers who gave me lots of flexibility and autonomy with my schedule.

Then six months ago, the company announced that they’d been requiring us all to return to work in the office four days a week. I’d been working mostly from home ever since the pandemic. I dragged out my maternity leave as long as possible, used up my vacation and sick time, and then finally made the choice two weeks ago to leave.

I’m not willing to sacrifice that time with my son.

I understand that I’m in an incredibly fortunate position that I can even consider leaving my job to become a stay-at-home mom—that my husband’s income is enough to support our family’s financial needs. I get to prioritize my baby and don’t have to outsource his care to other people.

Still, old habits die hard. As this day has approached, I’ve oscillated between feeling completely at peace and frenetically anxious. Earlier this week I went on a cleaning spree as my mother-in-law watched the baby, unable to let myself sit still. I felt this urge to prove that I’m still productive, that I still have value even though I’m not bringing in a paycheck anymore.

That I’m not just a stay-at-home mom.

It’s absurd that our culture has devalued motherhood to the point to that I have to do mental gymnastics just to recognize my own worth.

Mothering is a full-time job. If I were to pay someone to watch my kid so that I could go back to work, it would cost more than our monthly mortgage. Beyond that, the intangible value of providing a safe and secure, loving environment for my child, of getting to embrace these fleeting moments of him growing up. There’s no price tag on that.

A few people have asked if I’m concerned that I’ll get bored. I understand where they’re coming from—after all, it can be tiring having most of your conversations with a toddler.

Even though I know they meant nothing by it, their words triggered an old insecurity. Do people think I’m just going to be sitting around doing nothing all day?

As much as I know this isn’t true—I have way too many hobbies, creative pursuits, and personal ambition for that to ever happen—the fear persists. I worry that people will judge me now when I answer that question: so, what do you do?

I could get onto a whole soapbox about how capitalism has brainwashed us into thinking that our job equals our identity. That what we do for income is an indicator of who we are as people. Never mind that there are plenty of us working jobs that we dislike or that we’re indifferent to because they pay our bills.

But that’s a conversation for another time.

For now, I’m riding the emotions up and downs of this transition. I know it’ll take time to adjust to, but when I get past the insecurity and fear, I feel a deep sense of rightness. I know that this is the best choice for me and my family.

I’ve been creating around the edges of my job for years. Now, I’ll be creating around the edges of motherhood—a job that I actually love. I’ll continue to make space for my writing and art, because that’s who I am as a person.

I’m a stay-at-home mom. I’m also a writer, a photographer, a costumer, a maker, a reader, a friend, a wife, a lover, a daughter, a sister, a dreamer.

They are all equal facets of my identity.

I’ve been writing this while sitting on the floor of my son’s room as he plays with his toys. He just came over and buried his little face in my neck, then rested his head on my chest. And I felt a contentment, a hereness, that I don’t get anywhere else.

This is why I’m doing this.

I told a friend a month or so ago that what I wanted more than anything was to just write books, make art, and raise my baby.

That sounds like a pretty incredible life, she said.

And it does. Really, it does.

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