The Work in Progress Mommy

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.