They told me I was too distracted to keep my job just months after returning from maternity leave. What I did next sparked a conversation millions couldn’t ignore.
I used to wake up at 5:30 in the morning. My son would already be crying, red-faced, and wriggling in his crib like a little fire alarm.
I’d scoop him up, cradle him on my hip, and with my free hand, open my laptop. Emails, Slack pings, and a calendar reminder for a 7:00 a.m. check-in. The coffee in my mug was always cold by the time I remembered it was there.
That was my life: spreadsheets by sunrise, lullabies by moonlight. I wasn’t thriving — but I was surviving. And in those early days, that felt like enough.
It was just me, my baby, and a house that never stayed quiet. I bounced him in a wrap while typing up weekly reports. I changed diapers between Zoom calls and muted meetings to hum him back to sleep.
One morning, a coworker said, “Is that a baby crying?”
I smiled without blinking. “Probably just my ringtone.”
A few people chuckled, but after that, I kept my mic off more than usual.
Before I became a mom, I was the one they all leaned on. I’d been with the company for five years, started in admin, and climbed up to project lead. I took night classes, earned a digital marketing certification, and helped train the last round of new hires. When the 2020 rebrand nearly broke the site, I stayed up two nights in a row fixing the homepage. No complaints.
Rob, my manager, once told me, “If I had five of you, this whole place would run itself.”
Another time, during a performance review, he said, “You’re steady. You’re smart. You don’t complain. Honestly, you’re a dream employee.”
I remember smiling and saying, “Thanks, Rob. I like it here.”
And I did. I liked the work, the structure, the team. I liked knowing where I stood.
Then I became a mom. And things changed.
When I came back from maternity leave, I felt ready. Tired, but ready. In our check-in, I told Rob, “I’m back on. Early logins, late logouts. I’m here.”
He gave me a thumbs-up and said, “Love the attitude. Just keep the momentum.”
I tried. Even on two hours of sleep. Even when my baby had colic and I couldn’t finish a sentence without background noise.
I’d keep my camera on and my smile steady. But people started treating me differently.
“You look… tired,” Sarah from accounting said one morning. Her tone was soft, but her eyes said something else.
“Just baby stuff,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Mm. Hope it doesn’t affect your deadlines.”
The next week, Rob announced in our team meeting, “We’re asking for flexibility this quarter. Could be some late nights. Maybe weekends.”
I typed in the chat, “I can be flexible, just need some notice. I’ve got childcare responsibilities.”
No one replied.
Friday afternoon, a meeting popped up. 6:30 p.m.
I messaged Rob. “Can we do earlier? I have to pick up my son from daycare.”
He responded, “Let’s chat later.”
But he never did.
Then my paycheck was late. Three days late. I emailed payroll. No answer. So I asked Rob in our one-on-one. He leaned back in his chair and said, “It’s not like you’re the breadwinner anymore, right?”
I froze. “Actually, I am. I’m divorced.”
He gave an awkward laugh. “Oh. Right. Thought you were still with that guy.”
I didn’t respond. I needed that paycheck. I couldn’t afford to rock the boat.
So I said, “It’s okay. I just wanted to check.”
He waved a hand like it didn’t matter. “I’m sure it’ll come through.”
But something about the way he said it made me feel small. And that feeling — it stuck with me longer than I expected.
The next meeting was set for 3:00 p.m. Just me, Rob, and someone from HR I’d never seen before.