Essay: The balancing act

Published by Macey Shofroth on August 31, 2026August 31, 2026

Yesterday was supposed to be the day.

I had been thinking about writing this essay since I first came back to work after maternity leave. My son, Jack, my first child, was born in March. I relished our time getting to know each other before I started back to work in May. 

First, I caught back up on everything I’d missed while I was out. 

Then, I reoriented myself in the day to day of my job. Writing, producing newsletters, designing the newspaper — the nitty gritty details of my job to which I was excited to return. 

Next came planning for the future. Ideating stories, securing interviews, scheduling photos  — everything that keeps the Fearless ship moving forward.

I finally carved out some time yesterday to write this essay. I wanted to think about how my relationship to work had changed since becoming a mother. How I now better understand the working mothers I encounter every day and the ways our systems continue to fail them. 

Then suddenly it was 2 p.m., I’d barely made a dent in my email, much of the morning’s tasks sat unchecked on my to-do list and I was attempting to gently rock my screaming child to sleep, silently pleading with him to take the nap we both knew he desperately needed but apparently only one of us had expected to have already happened by then. 

I wasn’t sitting in front of the computer, but the essay started writing itself. 

Even now, I feel some guilt typing those words, knowing my colleagues are going to read that I didn’t get my work done the minute my arbitrary internal deadline came to pass. No matter that I would still complete everything I needed to by the true deadline, or that I work with an understanding and supportive team that cares as much for my well-being as they do the work I’m able to produce. My focus had been pulled in many different directions that day and my distractions and lack of balance was a sign that I could not “do it all” like I’d hoped. 

My son started daycare on Aug. 24, which means that from mid-May until just last week, he spent his days with his dad or me, who both are able to work from home, my sisters who were off work for the summer or my mom who gave up her weekly Friday off all summer to watch him. 

As a breastfeeding mom, I (gladly) took the lionshare of that time. My coworkers got to see his smiling, chubby cheeks at the bottom of my Teams video square or hear his shrieks of joy (which we call his “pteroJACKdyl” cries) in the background of meetings often. I was able to schedule most of my external meetings and interviews on the days he’d be with my family. Together, we made the most of our summer and I enjoyed getting to squeeze him for a bit when writing made my brain hurt. 

All that time, I had been contemplating my essay on working motherhood and what exactly I wanted to say about my experience. Then I started reading “Like Love,” a collection of essays, profiles, conversations and reviews from one of my favorite writers, Maggie Nelson. In a few of the pieces, Nelson offhandedly mentions trying to write while playing teacher for her son during the COVID-19 pandemic, their entire lives stuck between four walls, trying to stay stimulated through a computer screen and a Zoom call. 

Six years after the entire world was brutally interrupted, it hit me — I had established my early experience of motherhood to interrupt me in the same way. 

I started the search for daycare early on in my pregnancy, just like so many people told me to. I sent out Facebook message after Facebook message, letting prospective providers know that we would be looking for care to begin in May but could also start in August if need be. I thought an August start date could help us procure a spot if a provider had kids heading back to school.

We found an in-home provider we liked and trusted — and who only cost an arm, rather than an arm and a leg. She had a family transitioning out in August and we would be able to start soon after. I had no clue what my baby would be like, but I felt that I could handle three months of keeping him with me, with the help of our family. At least while he was still stationary and spent more time napping than awake.

It’s worked pretty well, all things considered. I learned to breastfeed while reaching my arms around Jack to type and check my email. He has a piano play gym that can entertain him for at least 30 minutes at a time. He took some naps in the carrier, some laying on the couch next to me and even let me put him in his crib occasionally. My managers assured me they were pleased with my work, that they had no worries about me completing what I needed to get done at the quality they expected. 

A million things had to go right for our family to make this setup work. I work for a company that values family and employee well-being. My husband also has a flexible job. My immediate family has all moved from eastern Iowa to Des Moines over the last 15 years, and now my parents live a few blocks away from us. My mother-in-law lives only a 2½-hour drive away. My sisters work for schools, so they have the summers off and could maneuver around their own children’s activities enough to help. My baby has always been a great sleeper, can entertain himself and has an easygoing temperament. I didn’t experience postpartum depression or anxiety. 

We have transportation, can afford daily necessities and a home big enough for us all to be here without being on top of one another. We have our health, salaried desk jobs that allow us to live flexibly. The world was not in the midst of a health crisis, and we did not have to fill in as more than just parents and employees. 

Even so, there were hard days. Days like yesterday when everything coalesced just right to make naps impossible, when tasks got pushed to the next day and I felt like I wasn’t fully showing up in either parts of my life. Days when my son was hungry right in the middle of a meeting or my family needed to attend to their own personal matters. Days when I called my husband to come home early from the office or sprung a last minute appointment on him that I had forgotten. 

Those are the days I wondered if I had made the right choice for the summer. But as I read this back, I realize how hard I worked. That I balanced as best I could, and even on the days where I didn’t live up to my own standards, I was trying. I was trying really, really hard. 

There are so many impossible decisions we have to make as working parents. Do we give up more time with our family for a higher salary? Am I wasting my talents? Should I stay home? Is the place I send my kid every day up to the standards I want for him? Am I giving my kid enough attention? Am I giving my work enough attention? Should I try something different? Am I burdening everyone around me? Am I doing enough? 

I don’t know if I have any answers, or even a conclusion that might tie this essay up into a neat little bow. I have always known that I wanted to have children, and while I’m only five months into it, I think I’m doing a pretty good job so far. I’ve also always known that I wanted to write, and I’m not afraid to say that I think I do a pretty good job at that, too. 

So I’ll keep working, and I’ll keep loving my son and my husband, and I’ll keep balancing the different parts of me and showing up as best I can. That’s all I can do.