The Work in Progress Mommy

Let me paint you a picture: It’s a hot and sultry Monday morning in Mumbai.  I’m supposed to be on a Teams call, nodding wisely and saying things like “Let’s take that offline.” Instead, I’m at my daughter’s summer camp, at the skating rink, crouched like a baby giraffe, holding the clammy little hand of my daughter, who is doing her best impression of someone being marched to the gallows.

This wasn’t Day One of skating class. Oh no, we were well into Week Two of summer camp. A camp she agreed to attend, by the way. She said yes. Enthusiastically. I even have witnesses.

But as it turns out, 3.5-year-olds have a very flexible definition of “yes.” Somewhere between “I want to skate!” and “I want to never skate again unless you carry me while also skating,” something changed.

Every morning, last week, there had been resistance. Tears. Negotiations. Stalling tactics worthy of seasoned diplomats. But like good parents who’d already paid the non-refundable fees, we soldiered on. “She’ll settle in,” we told ourselves. “All kids cry a bit in the beginning.” Right?

Except, this morning, when the crying escalated. It had now reached opera-level theatrics. And my mama-heart, already frayed by travel guilt and long work days and everything in between, gave in. I took a spontaneous two-hour leave from work and accompanied her to her summer camp. In my work clothes, with my laptop in my bag et el. And a vague idea that I’d just “drop in, drop her there, and leave.”

But of course, she wouldn’t even put on her skates unless I was with her. Holding her hand. On the rink. With the instructors and other kids looking on, slightly amused and slightly sympathetic.

She didn’t want to be coaxed by anyone else. She didn’t care how the other kids were skating solo. For her, skating was only acceptable if I was holding her hand through the entire process. So, there I was in my office attire, drenched in sweat, and with an absolutely unbearable back ache, trying to be the anchor in her tiny tornado of fear.

That morning, between my clumsy bent knee walk, her unsure glides and our nervous giggles, I had a small epiphany: maybe it’s not about skating at all. Maybe it’s about feeling safe. Maybe she’s not being difficult, maybe we’re just expecting too much, too soon.

Yes, we paid for the class. Yes, she technically said she wanted to go. But she’s three. And a half. She also said she wanted to be a unicorn last week.

So, I’ve decided to reframe it. Maybe skating camp wasn’t a waste. Maybe it wasn’t about mastering a skill, it was about learning something else: that sometimes, it’s okay to press pause, show up, and just hold your child’s hand without asking her to be brave or grown-up before she’s ready.

As parents, one of the hardest and most important lessons is learning to let our children be who they are, not who we want them to be.

It’s okay if they start something and stop midway.
It’s okay if they change their minds.
It’s okay if they cry.
It’s okay if they have big emotions and public meltdowns, because they’re kids.

We so often expect emotional regulation from them when, truthfully, even we as adults struggle with it. And yet, when they show fear, resistance, or frustration, our first instinct is often to “fix” it, smooth it over, or rush them past it, so they can keep up with everyone else or meet the invisible bar we’ve set.

But they don’t need fixing. They need space!
They don’t need pressure. They need presence!
They don’t need perfection. They need permission… permission to feel, to falter, to figure things out in their own time.

Our job isn’t to mold them into who we think they should be.
Our job is to love them as they are, in all their unpredictability, intensity, and magic.

To simply let them be.

And sometimes, that starts with us letting go… letting go of our expectations, our timelines, and our need for everything to go “according to plan.”

On a funny note, and as an afterthought… maybe next summer, we’ll just do an art class or pottery.

This past weekend, I received one of the most powerful parenting lessons, not from a book or a podcast, but straight from the lips of my 3.5-year-old daughter.

She’s always had a mind of her own. She knows what she likes, what she doesn’t like, and if there’s one thing she absolutely cannot stand — it’s being ignored. Especially when it comes to her likes and dislikes.

It was Saturday night. The three of us — my husband, our daughter, and I — were snuggled up in bed. Lights off, the usual bedtime routine underway. She asked for a story, and very specifically, a particular story. The one she always asks for. The one her dad doesn’t really like narrating, and so, he told her another one instead.

And just like that, she burst into tears. Loud, guttural sobs, the kind that wring a mother’s heart. I was already half asleep, trying to get some rest after returning from Kuala Lumpur and still battling the 2.5-hour time zone difference. But I pulled her into my arms and began softly singing to her. Eventually, she calmed down, nestled into me, and we drifted off.

I didn’t think too much of it until the same thing happened again the next night. Same setup: she asked for her story. He told her his. And once again, she cried, this time, longer and louder.

When my husband stepped out of the room, I asked her gently, “Cookie, what’s wrong? Why are you crying like this?”

She looked at me with those big eyes brimming with frustration and hurt and said, “Daddy doesn’t listen. He sushes me all the time. He doesn’t tell me the stories I want to hear. He tells me the stories he wants to tell me. I don’t like it. He doesn’t listen to me. And that makes me sad.”

Her words hit me like a thunderclap.
She didn’t stammer.
She didn’t fumble.
She just said it — plainly, powerfully, truthfully.

And I, a grown woman with decades of leadership experience, sat there humbled by the clarity of my three-year-old.

She was not just asking for a story. She was asking to be seen. Heard. Respected.

And isn’t that what all of us really want, as adults, as parents, as partners? We don’t always need people to agree with us. But we want to be listened to. We want our preferences to matter. We want to feel that our voice, however small, holds space in the room.

That night, my daughter became my teacher.

It’s so easy, especially in the whirlwind of parenting, to override a child’s preferences with our own logic — what’s easier, faster, or more comfortable for us. But children, just like us, are individuals with their own thoughts and desires. And when we dismiss those desires, however trivial they may seem (like a bedtime story!), what we’re really doing is sending a subtle message that their voice doesn’t matter.

Of course, my husband meant no harm. He was just trying to help, and perhaps hoping to speed up bedtime, like all of us do from time to time. But what we both learned that night was this:

Listening is not about convenience. It’s about connection.

And that connection starts young, at bedtime, over stories, in moments that seem inconsequential. Because to a child, those are the moments that build their world. And in that world, how we listen becomes far more important than what we say.

So now, I’m trying — really trying — to honour her voice. To pause. To ask. To let her choose the story. Even if it’s the same one every night. Because if it matters to her, then it matters. Period.

Sometimes the smallest people in our lives end up holding the biggest mirrors.

And last night, mine held one up for me, crystal clear.

My heart breaks every time I travel and have to leave my little girl behind. This week has been especially heart-wrenching. There’s this gnawing guilt that creeps in, the kind that whispers I’m a bad mom, because deep down, I believe that when a child is growing up, her Mommy should be around all the time. Any time away feels like a tiny fracture – for her, and for me.

On my first day out during this trip, I FaceTimed her on her Dad’s phone. She looked at me with those wide, knowing eyes and asked, “Where are you, Mumma?” I smiled and said, “I’m in Kuala Lumpur.” She repeated it slowly, her voice dancing over the syllables, “Kuaalaa Loompoor…” and then asked, “Why have you gone to Kuaalaa Loompoor?” I said gently, “Because I have work, Cookie.” Without missing a beat, she blurted out, “I hate your work!” And then she laughed and ran off, leaving me staring at the screen, my heart a tangled mess, until her Dad picked up the phone to talk.

Her words echoed long after the call ended. “I hate your work.” I know she didn’t mean it with resentment, just with the pure honesty of a little girl missing her mother. It was her way of saying, I need you. And even though I know this… it still stung. Because part of me – if I’m honest – agrees with her.

There are moments when I’m sitting in meetings, alone in hotel rooms lit with sterile light, or standing in quiet elevators surrounded by strangers, when I feel this wave of longing so intense, I have to blink away tears. I remind myself that I’m doing this for her, for our life, for her future, for my own identity and purpose beyond motherhood, but that doesn’t always soften the ache.

Sometimes I ask myself: Is this worth it? Am I choosing wrong? Am I losing too many little moments that I’ll never get back? Because the truth is, I want both! I want to be the present, comforting, nurturing mother she deserves, and I also want to keep growing, creating, contributing through my work. But the guilt… oh, the guilt is like a shadow that travels with me. Quiet, heavy, and always there.

I know, that someday she’ll understand. That she’ll grow up knowing her mother loved her with every cell in her body, and also loved the work she did in the world. I hope she’ll see strength in my choices, even the messy, imperfect ones. That when she begins chasing her own dreams, she’ll remember how I chased mine… not to leave her behind, but to light a path she might someday walk.

In the meantime, I’m learning to be kinder to myself. To let the tears come when they need to. To forgive myself on the days when I feel too stretched, too tired, too torn. And to count the moments until I’m back in her arms, because nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to that.

I’ve been thinking about ways to help ease the distance for both of us, to make the separation feel a little less sharp for her small, tender heart, and for mine, too. These are the little things I could come up with –

• Leave her little notes — tucked into her books, under her pillow, or in her lunchbox. Tiny love letters to remind her I’m never too far away.
• Send her a short video each morning — just me, saying how much I love her and sharing something silly we did together.
• Make a “Mommy and Me Countdown” jar — with a sticker or chocolate for each day I’m gone, so she knows exactly when I’ll be back.
• Turn our goodbyes into a sacred ritual — lingering a little longer in our snuggles, singing her favorite song, whispering our secret words.
• And most importantly, keep reminding her that even when I’m far, my love is right there with her. Always.

I hope these little gestures help her feel safe, connected, and endlessly loved, even in the spaces where my arms can’t reach her.